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lordofthecherubs · 2 months

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You're so pretty when I'm all over your mouth

“Oh, cowboy, I’m going to eat you alive.”

“Please, do.”

And you were going to lick the plate clean.

Warnings/Tags: Smut. 18+ only. Minors DNI. Takes place during the Shady Belle Arc. Reader is a vampire.

The sound of crickets chirping amongst the soft breeze the wind provided was all that distracted you from what was truly on the forefront of your mind right now.

It was that time of the month.

And no, not that time. This was something different.

It was time for you to feed.

Typically, whenever you had these urges, they would go away from simply taking the blood of various animals that you hunted. That’s why you always liked to go hunting alone, unlike Hosea or Charles.

This would have been an easy effort to maintain had it not been for Dutch constantly making the gang move from place to place due to his inability to keep quiet and stay out of the limelight. Constantly having to pack up and go as quick as you could, it reminded you all too much of the incidents in Blackwater, where you lost Jenny and Davey. If only you had more time, you might’ve been able to save them. But you were weak then, and you’re becoming weak now.

Now, the gang resides in a camp they call Shady Belle. It was pretty spacious in comparison to other places you had stayed, an abandoned home in the center of the property. Some members of the gang got to stay inside it, while the rest opted (some more begrudgingly than others), to remain outside in their tents. While Miss Grimshaw had originally wanted you take a place inside the building, you declined; insisting it belong to Abigail and Jack.

So, here you were in your tent. It was on the smaller side, and only provided a slight amount of privacy. Not that you needed much, given the fact the gang had all seen each other at their worst and their best. However, given your… condition, it would’ve been nice to have a place where you weren’t entirely aware of everything going on around you. Along with the urge to drain the blood out of somethings body for your own sake, your senses were heightened. Every smell, feeling, and noise was on another level. You couldn’t miss the way you heard slightly heavy breaths from the tent nearest to yours if you tried. It was Arthur’s tent.

Arthur was one of the most respected members in the gang. In a way, it was like he was Dutch’s son. He also happened to be one of the few who could bring you out of your shell, as strange as that sounded. He was just different. Of course you liked to hang around and drink with the guys, while simultaneously spending time with the women and helping with chores. But you couldn’t help but detach yourself from them. You were hiding something. They were not.

Maybe Arthur was too. Maybe that’s why you feel like you can be yourself around him.

Maybe that’s why the way his slightly musky scent drifting into your direction made your mouth water.

No, stop it. Do not feed on people. Especially people you know.

You couldn’t help but shift around in your makeshift bed, the only thought consuming your head being hunger. Perhaps it would be best to just go hunt a rabbit, but it was far too risky to go alone as you felt yourself growing weaker by the minute.

Letting out a low groan of annoyance, you shoved your paling face into your pillow, hoping that maybe you’d be able to just sleep it off. The sound of crickets and frogs along the shore filled your ears, and you urged yourself to just go to sleep, forcing your eyes shut.

A throat cleared itself behind you.

Almost instantly, you shot up into a defensive position, having not heard whoever it was walk up to where you were.

“Jesus, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Arthur.

You relaxed back onto your bed, sighing out in relief before making eye contact with the man in front of you.

“It’s okay, you didn’t scare me, just hadn’t heard you walk up is all.” You half-lied.

The cowboy let out a laugh. “Didn’t scare you? You looked like a bat outta hell!”

You’re sure he didn’t intend for that to be a pun.

“I just came to see if you were alright. You been tossin’ and turnin’ all night by the sounds of it.”

Of course he noticed.

Arthur noticed a lot of things when it came to you, weirdly enough. He took note of how your skin was always cold despite sitting in front of the campfire, and the way your ears were able to hear things that he wouldn’t have until a few minutes later.

“Oh.” You began to grow nervous, rubbing the back of your neck. “Y-yeah, I’m alright, couldn’t really get to sleep.”

He nodded, pretending not to see through the way you were lying to him. He was determined to dig deeper, for some reason.

“You wanna go on a walk with me?”

***

Upon reaching the entrance of the Shady Belle property, you found Arthur waiting for you, a cigarette hanging from his lips.

“All ready to go?” He asked, tossing it to the ground before grinding it down beneath his boot.

All you did was nod, hoping he would take the lead with things tonight.

It couldn’t have been any later than midnight, you were surprised at his admission to not being able to sleep either. Normally, you’d be able to strike up a playful conversation with Arthur easily. But tonight, you were on edge. You hoped he didn’t notice.

As the two of you headed deeper into the forest surrounding the camp, Arthur broke the silence again.

“So, what’s got you up all night, cowpoke? Regretting not taking a room in the house now?” He joked, though you could tell his question was coming from a place of genuine concern.

You forced a laugh, fiddling with the leather of your holster. “I guess you could say that,” you quietly agreed, avoiding eye contact. There was a heat burning in your chest. God, did he smell this good all the time?

“You’re not lyin’ to me now, are ya?” The cowboy pressed, stopping in his tracks beside a tree.

You looked up, attempting to read his face for a motive. But, classic Arthur Morgan style, he lowered his head, leaving his face covered by a black cowboy hat.

You didn’t have the energy to play along with his games tonight.

“And if I am?”

You hadn’t meant it to sound like a challenge, but the humid warmth of the air sticking to your skin mixed with his overbearingly strong scent, you couldn’t help but grow antsy.

Arthur raised his head, green eyes piercing into yours. His expression remained unreadable, though you could tell he was searching for what to say, leaving the tension between you two so thick it could be cut with a knife.

The outlaw didn’t hide the way he looked you up and down, and had it been anyone else, you wouldn’t have welcomed his approaching proximity so easily.

Standing before you, staring down at you, you couldn’t make out what he was trying to do. Intimidate you? That wasn’t like him.

At first, you remained looking at his chest, a button down shirt was all that stayed in your line of sight before him.

“Look at me,” He softly said. “Please.”

Inhaling sharply, you raised your head, craning your neck upwards to find his gaze. “If somethin’s botherin’ you, if someone did somethin’…” He trailed off, examining your face for any emotion.

You let a few beats pass before answering. You needed time to think. What do you say to that? You can’t tell him what’s really going on, but you didn’t want to lie either.

The wind blew a couple leaves around the two of you, stray pieces of hair on Arthur’s forehead moving along with them. You bit your tongue momentarily, as if that would satiate the urge to sink your teeth into the exposed skin of his slightly unbuttoned shirt.

This was becoming impossible.

“It’s nothing like that, Arthur. I-It’s…” You focused on your words carefully. “It’s just something you wouldn’t understand.”

A bit harsh, but sometimes things needed to be that way. Otherwise he’d confuse you for glass and see right through you.

You could tell he was a bit hurt by those words, the way his jaw clenched was proof enough. However, he wanted to help. He wasn’t satisfied with that answer.

“Then help me understand.”

The cowboy stepped closer. Closer than he had ever been before. It was all becoming too much, those same heightened senses betraying you all at once. His slightly sweaty skin shining in the moonlight, looking so desperate to have your teeth sunk into it. His overbearing scent filling your nose, making your mouth water.

Your heart raced in your chest.

“I don’t know if I can, Arthur.”

Thinking logically, what could you even say to him? Hey, Arthur, I know we’ve been running together in the gang for this long, but I forgot to mention that I’m a vampire! And, if you step any closer to me, I may lose my mind, draining your blood in the process!

Knowing Arthur, there were two reactions he could have to that. Laughing in your face, or killing you on the spot.

Both were not favorable.

Calloused fingers caressed your face, his palm held your cheek upwards to ensure you were looking at him.

“Try. For me, cowpoke.”

Maybe this is how he would kill you.

Maybe you would like it.

You were sure your eyes were glazed over at this point. Your fangs poked the inside of your cheek, and your mouth filled with saliva at the way his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. You wouldn’t last much longer like this.

With a shaky breath, you decided it was now or never.

“There’s just… something I need, but can’t exactly get. At least— not on my own.” You attempted to explain, lacking attention in the possible underlying tones your words carried.

Arthur gulped, sweat growing behind his neck. Clearly, his mind had gone south. “You mean…”

You knew what he thought you meant, and you stepped closer to where he stood, the already small distance between the two of you was nearly entirely closed up.

“No, Arthur,” You nearly pushed yourself forward into his chest, grasping at his shoulder to make him lean down, attempting to get your voice in his ear.

“I want your blood.” You said, just above a whisper.

Arthur pulled back, wanting to meet your eyes and make sense of the situation. What he was met with would never leave his head.

The once confident outlaw cowboy nearly buckled his knees at your gaze. Your eyes, full of want, something he thought he would never see from you in his life.

Chills ran up and down his spine, the same he’d get but never admit to having when finding himself cornered by an enemy.

Only, these were different. He almost wanted to lean into it. He almost needed it.

You looked at him like he was a meal.

Something stiffened in his pants.

And you could smell it. The aroma of arousal flooded you, making you swipe your tongue out from inside your mouth and slide over your lips. It was then that he caught a glimpse of your fangs, eyes widening.

The man realized he hadn’t spoken up since your initial comment, clearing his throat the same way he did when he creeped up on you at your tent.

“You can have it. It’s yours.”

What a careless thing to say.

In an instant, almost like a choreographed dance, you launched yourself forward, Arthur wrapping his hands around your waist as you clung to him, listening to the way your breathing grew heavy beside his ear.

“Mine, huh?” You heaved, teasingly dragging your teeth along his neck, loving the way he weakly lowered himself to his knees, soon laying flat on his back with you straddled on top of him.

Your palms laid flat against his chest, and you leaned down to lick over the spot you intended to sink your teeth into. Your jaw fell slack as you prepared to take your feast, but you paused when you felt something poke your behind.

A devious laugh erupted from you. “What’s this?” You asked, reaching a hand behind you to palm at his throbbing erection.

Arthur wiped a hand down his face. “Can’t help it when you’re on me like this, angel.”

Angel. His chosen term of endearment was angel. You could hear the way his heart pounded in his chest, the mixed scent of fear and arousal clouded around him, and he still called you angel.

Pressing your hips down to grind against him, you drank in the way he threw his head back instantly, his hat knocking off his head to display messy brown hair.

"Oh, cowboy, I’m going to eat you alive.”

“Please, do.”

And you were going to lick the plate clean.

The heat of his skin was becoming too much for you to hold back any longer, nearly launching forward towards his neck with your teeth bared. Without any warning, you snapped your fangs into him. The skin was soft, though tender, given the fact that he was a muscular man.

And he whined.

Arthur Morgan, killer, robber, and wanted man across states and cities, whined.

The cowboy’s firm hand steadied on your hips, his grip nearly bruising. The feeling of his neck being punctured into and fed from left him lightheaded, and he pleaded with himself to not pass out. He didn’t want to miss a single moment of this.

The sound of you humming feverishly against his skin, nails digging into his shoulders, and the slight continuous grind of your hips onto where he needed it most, he felt like he was in a dream.

After a few minutes, the initial point of penetration didn’t hurt anymore, leaving his senses to align with what he was feeling next. To ask a man with as limited of a vocabulary as he had to describe the feeling of the blood being drained from his body was a mistake. Because, he wouldn’t know what to say, other than that it was perfect.

The same way Reverend Swanson was addicted to substances, or John to troublemaking, he could become addicted to this.

Time passed, and you eventually pulled away, a mess of drool and blood left on the cowboys neck and your lips.

He wanted to kiss you. Your lips were swollen and covered in the red substance, your hair a mess atop your head, and your eyes half-lidded. He needed to kiss you.

“I’m sorry, that was probably really—“

The same rough hand from before grabbed behind your neck, pulling you down to his lips for a desperately rough kiss, the metallic taste of himself causing him to buck his hips upwards into nothing.

It had to be nearing morning now. The air had lost it’s humidity, and if not for the heat growing between the two of you, it would’ve been cold enough for goosebumps to litter your skin.

The cowboy didn’t hear a word you said, regaining his strength and flipping you over so that he was now on top of you.

You couldn’t help but feel embarrassed beneath him.

“Aw, gone shy on me now, cowpoke?” Arthur teased, brushing a lock of hair away from your face.

He leaned down and kissed you again, though this time, he didn’t remain on your lips for long. The scruff of his stubble prodded against your skin as he lowered himself down, kissing your neck and collarbones.

“You said you were gonna eat me alive, right, angel?” He asked, holding himself up to look down at you.

Your cheeks flushed, and you nodded, avoiding his eyes.

“Looks like you held back. Can’t have been easy for you, sweet thing, I know,” He paused, grabbing your cheeks roughly to force you to look at him. “I think you deserve a reward.”

Brows pitched upwards on your face, your hips subconsciously rolled upwards at his gravelly voice and sudden dominant nature.

A smirk filled the outlaws face, and he reached down to undo the top buttons of your pants.

“Now, you’re not so desperate you’d take my blood and want me to fuck you, are you cowpoke?”

Biting down on your lip, you didn’t care that you nearly caused yourself to bleed.

Arthur’s large hand reached into your pants, his fingers prodding over the wet spot in your panties.

He hummed. “Guess you are.”

You reached out to dig your nails into his arm as he rubbed his fingers against your bundle of nerves, silently pleading with him for more.

“Gotta use your words, angel. Can’t know what you want ‘less you tell me.”

“P-please, Arthur…need you,” You pleaded, opting to reach down and pull down your pants for him.

The cowboy stopped you in your tracks, pulling them down gently the rest of the way, admiring the way your slick glistened in the moonlight.

He couldn’t wait any longer. He was growing light-headed from the blood loss, and if his pants got any tighter, he might’ve lost his mind right then and there.

With that, he shoved his own pants down along with his boxers, revealing his length to you.

At first, you stared, shocked. The way it bobbed upwards and throbbed, leaking from the tip, you felt bad for teasing him.

Then, gone went your own undergarments, your bottom half on full display to Arthur. If someone told you a few hours ago you’d be in the situation you were in right now, you’d laugh in their face.

But here you are, Arthur Morgan on top of you, lining himself up with your dripping mess of a cunt.

“If it’s too much, tell me.” He said, clearly trying to keep his composure above you.

All it took was a nod, and he slowly pushed himself forward into you, causing you both to gasp.

The grip you had on his arm tightened, the slight pain of him stretching you out engulfing your senses.

Arthur, on the other hand, was doing everything in his power not to slam himself into you without any time to adjust.

He was nicer than that, so he refrained by biting down on his lip. He wouldn’t last long like this, with the way you were so tight around him, pulling him deeper inside.

Once he was fully inside you, Arthur allowed you some time to get used to him, admiring the way you looked beneath him.

“Just tell me when you’re—“

“For the love of God, Arthur. If you don’t move I’m going to lose my mind.” You didn’t have to tell him twice.

Pulling out slightly, then thrusting forward, he couldn’t help the way a groan slipped past his lips.

But it was nothing compared to you. Typically, you liked to remain modest and not cause too much commotion. Though, was that at all possible when a cowboy just let you drink his blood, and was now fucking you like it was nothing?

It was almost overwhelming, the way you both came together like this. You had been so wound up, the feeling of the band in your stomach snapping was approaching rapidly, and it didn’t help when he reached down and began to rub at your clit, a new wave of pleasure added on top of what you were already experiencing.

It was all too much, really. In the best way possible.

“A-Arthur, ‘m close…” You warned, eyes nearly shut as you whined loudly.

“I know, angel, me too,” He said between thrusts, groaning out momentarily. “Need you to be good and cum for me, okay? Can you do that, darlin’?”

You nodded quickly, as if you had any say in the matter.

It all happened so fast, white-hot pleasure you had never felt before ripping through your entire body, tears filling your eyes as you reached a climax like no other. Not far behind, Arthur’s speed was growing sloppy, and he readied to pull himself out of you, but you grabbed his arm again.

“Inside, please,” You begged, cheeks stained with tears as you looked up at him. Almost instantly, that was enough for him. His hips snapped forward, releasing himself inside of you as per your wishes.

The sound of labored breathing filled your ears as he fell down on top of you, catching his breath. You were content to lay on the ground like this with him forever if he’d let you, but you knew he would have questions as soon as he gathered his senses.

Arthur rolled off of you, matching you by laying on his own back, his hand wiping sweat from his forehead.

A beat of silence.

“…So, you’re a vampire, then?”

You wanted to giggle at the bluntness of his question.

“Yes, you could call it that,” You hummed, turning your head to look at him. A drop of blood began to slide down his neck, and you almost instantly shot your hand forward to wipe it with your thumb, bringing it to your mouth.

It was greedy. But he liked it.

Another beat of silence.

“D’you think the camp heard us?”

You both erupted into laughter, soon ending in the cowboy pulling you onto himself, assaulting your face with kisses.

“Been wantin’ to do that for a while now, cowpoke.”

You met his eyes. “Do what? Fuck me in the woods just outside camp, or let me suck your blood?”

Arthur flicked your forehead gently.

“Kiss you, smartass.”

So he did it again. And again. And again until you had to push him away because it started to tickle you, and the rising sun began to appear in the corner of your eye.

“We should head back, Arthur.”

“In a minute, I wanna see these things…” He muttered, using his fingers to part your jaw and expose your fangs. “Jesus! Those were inside my neck?”

Playfully, you bit down on his finger. “Sure were, now stop stalling.”

There were more questions that weighed on his mind, but he knew you probably wanted to get back and relieve yourself into some much needed sleep.

Helping you up, you leaned into his side while his arm wrapped around you, the two of you quietly making your way to camp, dawn breaking.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #vampire reader #red dead redemption 2 #Arthur Morgan x vampire reader #smut #rdr2 smut #vampire au #Arthur Morgan one shot #rdr2 #rdr2 fic #red dead redemption 2 fic #idk how tags work on here #Spotify

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mrmorganslove · 23 days

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ride it cowgirl .

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• Arthur morgan x fem!reader

• rating: explict :3

• Warnings: smut, fluff, arthur getting his pretty girl to ride him! degrading and blah blah. its just smut 🥸

• somewhat low honor and high honor…?

•a short lil fic because this has been on my mind for a while. (it is not the best because its quick 😞)

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The afternoon sun shined through the curtains at the Saint Denis hotel. “Alrigh’ come on up on my lap sweetheart” he was laid back half sat up against the soft white pillows, he still had his hat, shirt and pants sitting on hid muscular thighs, his hard cocking resting against shirt. he reached over, grabbing your bare hips, your wet cunt hovering above his throbbing erection. “Jesus Darlin’ yer drippin’ fer it.” teasing you as he slowly lowered your hips down moving them back and forth at achingly slow pace. “A-arthur.. oh god p-please..” Stopping the movement he gave a dirty smirk.

One hand stayed on your hip rubbing slow little circles as the other snaked up towards your breast massaging as his thumb swiped your nipple, a whine escaped your swollen lips, it made you shiver, weak in the knees. “Sorry darlin’ i need ya to speak up fer me, can you do that for your daddy baby?” he said in the most teasing tone as he continued to knead your tit. “Please fuck me arthur.. i need you so bad please” you pouted as you lowered your hips down and searched for that sweet friction.

As he saw your desperate and lewd acts, he chuckled darkly. “look at c’yew, such a lil’ slut aching fer it. rubbing all up on it, so fuckin desperate.” as he raised you up, he got ahold of his cock and put you down on it with ease sinking down. You let out a pathetic moan, your eyes closed softly as you both twitched. His groan was like music to your ears.

Taking his hat off he placed it on your head, he loved the way you looked in any form of his clothing. “Now cowgirl, yer gonna do exactly as i say n’ yer gonna ride like there’s no tomorrow.” you let out a mewl at his words, starting to slowly bob up and down on his cock, every noise was escaping your lips. “ah! a-arthur, you feel s-so good” you whine as he presses wet kisses against your neck, also leaving love bites that you were sure enough that were going to be there for a while. “Yer such a good lil’ girl for my cock, ain’t c’yew darling” you let out a whine and nod. he smacks your ass and grips it. “Use yer words. like good lil whore.” “yes im a good girl for y-your c-cock!” He groaned at your submissiveness. “Git up and ride.” he smacked the underside of your thigh.

“Fuckin’ christ..” his head fell back as he let out a gravelly groan, it made you clench around him tightly. Arthur slapped the underside of your thigh again a little harder which made you gasp. “Cmon cowgirl, ride faster. i know yew can” he scowled as you moved your hips doing as Arthur asked. his gaze was fixated on your body as your muscles tensed, face contorted in pleasure. “Shit… Yer doing so well for me my good girl, my pretty girl.” His words nearly made you climax on the spot. Your hand reached down to find your neglected bud. “i-im so close.. fuck. im gonna”

Arthur growled, he replaced your digits as his thumb found that little pearl under that hood, adding the right amount of pressure. Arthur couldn’t hold back as he started to thrust up into you. “d-daddy gonna.. cum!”

You choked on your whines and moans, eyes rolled to the back of your head at the sudden delicious movement, his one hand focused on rubbing at that pearl of yours and the other held on your hip he lets out a low groan “Cmon darlin’. cum fer me cum for daddy.” just those words and the knot in your lower stomach comes undone. The most pornographic moans were leaving your lips. You were sure other guests in the hotel heard. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your legs twitch and shake as arthur continues thrusting into your convulsing pussy. you can tell he’s so close, his breathing is heavy and shaky as he groans “Oh shit, oh sh- fuuuucckk!” ropes of cum shoot up into your sensitive cunt. his thrusts slow down until they come to a stop, you both heavily breathing from the event that just occurred.

“Christ woman ya never fail to amaze me; and ya look tew good with my hat on.” you giggled at his words, he softly smiled and leaned towards you giving you a slow & passionate kiss. Slowly he pulled out of you, a and went to retrieve a cloth to clean you up. Arthur got rid of the cloth and hopped into bed next to you, cuddled against each other. “I love you arthur.” “Love ya too darlin’.”

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how cute !!!!!

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x reader smut #arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 fic

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reaveries · 1 year

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▬ a warm place for numb fingers (18+)

summary: after a conversation with a friend, tension arises between the reader and arthur. action is ultimately forced into her hands... or fingers, more like.

pairings: high honor!arthur morgan x female!reader

warnings: mature content (18+)// explicit descriptions of fingering, cunnilingus, and some good ol' fucking

word count: 5.7k (estimated 23-minute reading time)

a/n: this goes out to all the cold and horny girls out there. i see you and i salute you. enjoy the fic

masterlist archive of our own

The chill was an inescapable thing and it followed her closely wherever she went. It burned her face red whenever she emerged from the mining town cabins. When she’d been forced to ride against it in fierce storms, it possessed her hair to lash violently across her cheeks in a blinding fury. And once those storms passed, it continued to insatiably lap at any skin left exposed to its gnawing teeth. Numbness in her fingertips became commonplace, leaving her defenseless as her trigger finger trembled beneath thin leather gloves. Like a starved coyote, the chill searched for any scrap of flesh it could find and devoured it to the bone. It wasn’t forgiving, as nature often isn’t.

She draws her coat closer to her body now, but the little winds continue to hungrily nip at her cheeks and dust them pink. What once ravaged her has become meek since they’ve descended the peaks of the Grizzlies. But it’s still there, and will continue to be until spring thaws the world.

“Can’t believe I’m lookin’ at one of the most wanted outlaws this side of the Dakota.”

She looks up from her feet and sees Karen smiling, holding a cigarette between her fingers. She brings it to her lips and draws out the smoke.

“God, if the Pinkertons knew how big of a baby you really are, maybe they’d have tried their luck in Colter,” she says with a cheeky grin.

“That’s the only way those fuckers could’ve taken me down,” the outlaw says, laughing bitterly into her scarf. “I’ve never done well in the cold. Every day that I wake up and can’t feel my toes, I’m closer to packing up and fleeing to New Austin. Thinking of building myself a house made of cacti.”

She walks through the frost-laden grass to where her friend stands, overlooking the Dakota river.

“You’re fulla shit,” Karen says, rolling her eyes. “The day you leave this bunch will be the day God, himself, shoots you off your horse. Got too much love in your little heart for the lot of us.”

The woman chuckles dryly, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Got too much love for you, Karen,” she says in a sickeningly sweet tone and leans in, tilting her head dramatically to the side as if to give her a sloppy kiss.

“Get the hell away from me!” Karen screeches and fumbles to push her away.

The outlaw stumbles backward lazily with her head thrown back in laughter.

“You play around too much, you know that?” Karen says, shaking her head, but the forceful tug on the right side of her lips gives her away.

She smiles down her nose at the blonde woman, “Yeah, that’s what I keep hearin’.”

Once they both settle down, Karen extends the cigarette to her, offering whatever she can manage as it quickly dies out. She takes it between her forefinger and thumb and lets the smoke warm her from the inside.

“You know what I overheard some of the workin’ girls sayin’ when I was in town?” Karen speaks up as the smoke escapes the woman’s throat.

She hums in question. Words out of the mouth of a working girl can hardly ever be taken for truth, but damn if they weren’t entertaining.

“Apparently, the number of clients they get skyrockets in the winter months. Somethin’ about men subconsciously wantin’ to be warmed up so they seek out activities that make ‘em break a sweat.”

She nods, “I guess that makes enough sense.”

Karen shakes her head, “That’s not all. The girls were also sayin’ that as it gets colder, the men are more and more riled up. Almost like it’s something with the moon, but instead of turnin’ into the dogman, they just wanna bury themselves in a woman real bad. But all I’m hearin’ while these girls are sayin’ this is that we got ourselves a bunch of fools too dumb to think clearly down in that little town.”

She stomps the life out of the cigarette with the toe of her boot, her spurs jingling as she drives it into the dirt.

“Ain’t no way that’s true,” she says with a sardonic smile. “That last part, sure, but the moon’s got nothin’ to do with it.”

“Well, somethin’s gotta explain it,” Karen says and crosses her arms defensively across her chest. “I can tell ya, once it gets colder the men start lookin’ at ya different. I never noticed the link ‘till now but it kinda makes sense.”

She has to fight the laugh rising in her chest as she tries to seriously process the idea that men are becoming more aroused due to a giant orb in the sky. It takes everything in her not to but Karen sees right through her.

“It ain’t that ridiculous, you know. You can’t tell me you ain’t never noticed Arthur actin’ different.”

The amusement rapidly drains from her face and is replaced by a look of bewilderment.

“What are you talkin’ about Arthur for? Arthur and I are just friends, we ain’t like that,” she sputters out.

“Oh, sorry,” Karen says, putting her hands up, “I forgot you was still on that.”

Her flustered reaction surprises even herself, causing a creeping warmth to crawl its way to her cheeks. A biting retort fumbles dumbly in her mouth.

“I’m not on anything. Don’t know what got in your head but it ain’t never been like that between Arthur and me.”

“It ain’t just in my head, honey. Everyone here knows it. You think folk ain’t seein’ the way you two touch up on each other the way you do? How neither of you goes nowhere without the other? Get real. It’s plain as day to everyone but yourself.”

She tosses a quick glance over her shoulder, hoping no one is near enough to hear their conversation. Instead, she sees that the camp has slowly come to life while she’d been distracted by Karen. Folk have begun their morning chores, migrating from washboards to clothing lines or splitting logs of wood in two. Her eyes flit across their faces until they land on the one she’s searching for. He’s far enough away, speaking with Pearson by the food supplies wagon. The cook waves his hands around animatedly but he’s turned away from her so she can’t tell what they’re speaking about. Arthur looks past the man and meets her eyes. He smiles and nods at her, to which she returns with a forced thin smile of her own.

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Karen,” she mutters, and without turning to say goodbye, walks away.

And yet, Karen’s words burrow themselves deep within her mind and linger in the spaces between each normal thought as the day continues. Surely she'd been exaggerating and not everyone in camp suspects her and Arthur to be intimate with each other. Karen just thinks she knows more than she does sometimes. It was very much like her to be overly confident about certain things, proclaiming them as fact even past the point she knows she’s wrong. Then again, that also wasn't the first time someone had mistaken their closeness for something more amorous in nature. Dutch, having watched her throw an arm around Arthur and share from his bottle, assumed the pair had made themselves official. This prompted some proud fatherly spiel wherein he clapped Arthur on the back and congratulated him. It was vague enough that neither of them knew what he was referring to until later. Once they both realized, it gave them a good doubled-over, tears-from-the-eyes sort of laugh. But Arthur quickly cleared it up with the man, assuring him that there was nothing of that sort going on. Apparently, Dutch remained unconvinced.

As she sharpens her knife, an interesting thought intrudes past the others. For a moment, she wonders if Arthur might be an exception to this phenomenon the working girls were talking about. He never spoke of women the way that most men did. So, if he’d ever been interested in that sort of way, she wasn’t privy to it in the slightest. But, he’s still a man and he isn’t immune to the desires of men. Could it be possible that Arthur wishes for a woman to warm his bed at night? Or perhaps, on the coldest nights, a woman to warm himself inside?

Her blade slips against the whetstone and nearly slices her hand open as depraved imagery flies behind her eyes. She curses loudly and the knife drops to the dirt with a muffled thud.

A horse gallops and skids next to the hitching post beside her and the rider quickly flies off the mount, hitting the earth with heavy feet. She looks up from her hand and it’s him. There’s a pristine buck carcass flung over the back of his mare from a hunting excursion he must be returning from.

“You alright?” He asks in a raised voice, meeting her with a walk that holds no patience. He looks down at her hands, likely expecting to see them covered in blood. His shoulders drop in relief when he can’t find any.

“I’m fine,” she says, standing up quickly and brushing dust off her pants. She forcefully clears her head of the intrusive thoughts, worried he might be able to see them if he looks too close.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack, woman. Don’t know what I’d do if you went and chopped off your trigger finger,” he says, running a stressed hand through his hair.

“You’d have to find a new riding partner, that’s for sure,” she quips unenthusiastically.

A breath of laughter leaves his lips to tell her she’s being ridiculous.

“Naw… There ain’t no replacin’ you. Ain’t a single person here has what it takes to put up with half the shit you and I do. We’d just have to teach ya to shoot with four fingers.”

His tone is lighthearted but there’s a hint of sincerity to his words that makes her cock her head in intrigue. He notices the change in her expression and quickly backpedals.

“Ah, don’t let that get to your head, now! I can barely tolerate ya most days. There’s just… no denyin’ you’re one of the best shots here,” he says, avoiding her eyes.

She smiles smugly and pats his chest.

“Tell me something I don’t know, cowboy.”

“Like I said, I can barely tolerate ya,” he says, swatting her hand off him. “Anyways, you mind takin’ that buck to Pearson? I need to have a word with Dutch about tomorrow.”

“Sure thing,” she says and slips past him to retrieve the fresh game.

She hoists the buck over her shoulder and nearly gasps from the unexpected weight. The animal is nowhere near light and it’s a wonder he managed to cleanly take down the thing. He looks over his shoulder at the sound of her boot scuffling in the dirt as she steadies herself.

She stumbles over to Pearson’s wagon and throws the carcass down on the ground. The cook is nowhere to be found so she figures she’ll save him the trouble and put her sharpened blade to good use. The knife cuts cleanly through the skin like warm butter, separating the hide from tender pink insides. As she’s making the final incisions, she looks up from the gruesome sight and sees Arthur talking to Dutch outside his tent. He seems relaxed enough, his hands resting on the buckle of his gun belt while he talks. It’s something he does often, just like someone might stuff their hands in their pockets for the sake of keeping them occupied. An endearing little action. And yet, for some reason, the common and utterly insignificant act of him doing this makes her forget herself.

Maybe it’s the suggestion of him holding a different object hidden beneath the confines of denim, right below his loose grip. Because the longer she looks, a vision of him taking himself into a fisted hand begins to overshadow her mind. He’s lying in his cot, and while everyone else huddles together for warmth in their makeshift beds, he’s fucking his hand in the darkness of his tent. His eyes are screwed shut and his mouth is parted slightly, but no noise escapes his lips to save himself the mortification of someone walking past and overhearing. He quickens the pace of his pumping hand and breathes out a quiet, ragged moan as he coats his stomach with ropes of sticky seed. His chest heaves, then slows to normal before he wipes the evidence away with a worn shirt.

Arthur looks at her with a confused look on his face. He waves a hand slowly in mock greeting to rouse her from her dazed state. Dutch, mid-sentence, turns to look over his shoulder, but she averts her eyes before they can meet his.

“Holy shit,” she whispers. She frantically finishes skinning the deer with her chin to her chest to hide the furious blush tormenting her cheeks.

Once she’s finished, she practically sprints back to her tent before Arthur can ask her what her deal is. She closes the flaps hastily and goes to sit on the edge of her bed to collect herself.

It’s not like she’s never fantasized about a person before, and she’s taken people to her bed more times than she can remember. This flustered feeling isn’t rooted in some virgin-like innocence, and yet she might as well be a pastor’s daughter with the way she’s blushing over it.

It’s because it’s him. He’s her partner. Her friend. Someone who’s grown to understand her better than she understands herself. She’s been the same person for him ever since they crossed paths in Montana all those months ago. Many feelings, albeit platonic, have come and gone since that fateful encounter, but lust? Lusting after a friend may be the most foreign feeling she’s stumbled upon in all her years of living.

A griminess so thick and so palpable enshrouds her, weighing heavily, filthily, on her skin. And there’s only one solution that comes to mind.

She straddles the firmness between her thighs as it bounces rhythmically beneath her. A moan unintentionally escapes her lips in response to the merciless feeling down below. Her blouse sticks to damp skin and plasters itself lewdly against the curves of her stomach and chest as her hips rock back and forth. Another moan. This one more pained than the last.

Her thighs have always burned something fierce whenever she’d mount her horse directly after a bath. Soft, herbal-scented skin would grate against thick cotton of riding trousers, eliciting the pained gritting of teeth. But this time, the minor uncomfortable sensation is preferable, simple, compared to the complexities of her consuming thoughts from earlier. A hot bath was her saving grace as it turned out. It cleared her head and made her feel like her normal self again. Whatever thoughts she’d been having of her partner had been washed away and left behind at the bottom of the steel tub like some tainted baptism.

She rides through the trees that fringe the perimeter of camp and calls out to Javier, who stands guarding the entrance. He gives her a short wave, and nothing else. The two of them haven’t talked much, despite having ridden together for over a year now. Most of the men in camp tend to keep to themselves, she’s noticed. It’s a shame the talkative Irish man went and got himself killed in Blackwater. He knew how to have a good time. He always claimed the two of them were kindred spirits, but she heavily denied it each time since it read like an insult.

She swings herself off the saddle and, like a moth to a lantern, migrates toward the fire to warm herself. The sun has sunk beneath the horizon and with it any amount of heat it provided, leaving her a shivering mess. Dinner bubbles inside the stew pot, prompting her to grab a portion before taking a seat on one of the logs.

The fire is reduced to glowing embers that do little to warm her bones. She nudges the logs with her boot but they just shift and plume ash. Sighing, she tugs closed the lapels of her coat and brings a spoonful of venison stew to her lips. The steaming broth slides down her throat and settles in her belly, making a furnace of her stomach. It’s a nice feeling, one that quiets her mind.

Suddenly, the log shifts as someone sits beside her.

“Where’d you disappear off to?” He asks. “I couldn’t find ya anywhere.”

Arthur settles to sit hunched over with his elbows resting on his knees, a bowl of stew in his hands. He’s wearing a dark long-sleeve shirt and a light jacket, but not much else to protect him from the cold. In fact, when she looks around, no one else seems to mind the chill as much as she does. Maybe Karen was right in calling her a baby.

“Nowhere special. I just had to go into town for a bit,” she says, taking another sip of the stew.

He nods his head, “Had to go into town and get yerself a bath, huh?”

She turns sharply to look at him, her brows drawn together in confusion.

“I could smell the lavender oil the minute ya hitched yer horse,” he explains. “What’s that about? Are ya plannin’ on finally actin’ like a lady or somethin’?”

She shoves his shoulder with her free hand.

“Shut up Arthur. You act more like a lady than I do,” she accuses. “Also, it might do ya good to take a bath for once.”

That last part she says a little lower than the first. Sometimes when they’d be out on extended errands they’d bathe in the river together. But no matter how much he scrubbed his skin, the stench of cigarette smoke and sweat would linger in the closed tent when she lay beside him in her bedroll at night. She always put up with it though because it likely meant she didn’t smell much better.

“The hell’s that s’posed to mean?” He asks, looking visibly taken aback.

“It means you smell like—”

“Naw, not that. Whatchu mean I act like a lady?”

“Oh. It means you’re goin’ all soft, big guy. Take it as a compliment,” she says, trying to suppress a smile.

“Great. First Dutch, now you. I ain’t goin’ soft, girl. And I sure as hell ain’t turnin’ into a woman,” he says, looking away from her and shaking his head. “As if you even knew what it meant to be one. Look at yerself!” He adds with an indignant wave of his hand that gestures from the top of her head to her feet.

She doesn’t need to look. Her coat is crafted from bear and bison pelts, made to fit a man larger than herself because the trapper lacked the expertise to tailor one for a woman. It keeps her warm enough, which is all that should matter. Wearing clothes that flatter her figure ranks relatively low on her list of priorities when every day is a fight to not freeze to death. On top of that, folk have always been mighty eager to remind her of her femininity whenever she dared step outside the docile role of her fairer sex. Which, in her line of work, was often.

“I’ll have you know I consider myself an expert on the matter… ma’am.”

She starts to snicker but when she looks over at him his jaw is set and he’s giving her a side-eye that makes the noise die in her throat.

“Keep callin’ me a lady and see where it gets ya, woman. Y’ain’t gonna be laughin’ when I’m forced to prove myself to ya.”

If there was ever any heat being produced in her body, it's all gone and rushed to her face just now. She stares at him, unblinking.

“What?”

“Mm, s’what I thought,” he says, bringing a spoon of potatoes and broth to his lips. “Now, if you’re done foolin’ around, are you comin’ with us tomorrow or not? Dutch said you might but I know you’ve got a lot on your plate as is.”

He said he’d prove himself to her. Prove that he’s a man. There’s hardly any innocent way to interpret that.

“Tomorrow?” She asks. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

He looks at her all funny-like, slightly annoyed even.

“Did you drink the bathwater or somethin’? The O’Driscoll told us they was all holed up in some cabin not far from here. Mentioned Colm is with’em. I only told ya about it a handful of times.”

She hears him but isn’t really listening. The phrase repeats on a loop in her head. She wants to ask him what he meant by it but the moment’s passed and she knows there’s no real answer. If asked, he’d just say he was teasing her and there’s nothing more to it.

He calls her name, bringing her out of her stupor. She opens her mouth to say something but the wind picks up. A bone-rattling shiver possesses her, making her shrink inside herself. He stares at her, unphased by the chill but with concern etched into his handsome features.

“Sorry, Arthur. I- I don’t know where my head’s at,” she says through clenched teeth.

“S’Alright,” he says, looking her over. “I forget how sensitive you are to the cold.”

He sets his bowl on the ground and brings his hands to cup around his mouth, heating them with hot breath. He then takes her hands into his and clamps around them, transferring warmth to numb fingers.

“Jesus, you’re freezin’,” he says.

He brings her hands close to his mouth and repeats the same action, trying to warm them back to life with his breath. He presses into her palms, massaging heat from the pads of his fingers into hers.

Had he done this simple gesture for her yesterday, she likely would’ve just felt grateful to feel her fingers again. But today isn’t like yesterday. Yesterday, she wasn’t acutely aware of the ever-present moisture nearly dripping down her thighs or the dull, aching pain at her core as it practically begs to be filled by a man. Yesterday, she didn’t envision that man to be Arthur. She didn’t envision herself blissed out and bouncing on his cock, being guided by his hands gripping her ass and forcing her all the way down on him every time. She also didn’t visualize their sweating naked bodies pressed against one another as he hoists her legs around his waist and fucks her relentlessly against the side of his wagon. Yesterday was, without a doubt, much easier than today. Today she’d thought of all these things and more.

She watches attentively how he holds her slender fingers in the thickness of his own. Those hands have snuffed out the lives of many, brutally at that. She’d seen them wrapped around the necks of men, crushing their windpipes and severing their spines when he’d been provoked on the wrong sort of day. Lots of blood on those hands. But there’s just as much on hers and in this moment, those blooded hands are so tender towards her.

If these same hands could kill without remorse, yet be so gentle when the time came for it, then by God, what else were they capable of?

She slips her hands out of his faster than she intended to.

“Thank you, Arthur,” she whispers, looking away.

“Sure. Maybe that’ll help ya to start actin’ normal again. Get the blood flowin’ to yer brain and such.”

If only he knew it was doing the opposite. Blood is flowing elsewhere and she’s the furthest from normal she’s been in a long while.

She stands up, leaving the bowl of stew unfinished on the ground.

“Here’s hoping,” she says, her hands clasped together to preserve his heat.

Her boots crunch ice-bitten dirt loudly beneath their heels as she makes her way through the quiet camp and to her tent. She doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until the flaps close shut behind her.

“What… What is wrong with you?” she asks no one. Her tent is empty, and even though she wants to be alone, this is no comfort.

Her palms dig into the concave of her eye sockets, rubbing them furiously to wake herself up. She groans and shrugs off her coat, letting it collapse onto the floor. Her boots are kicked off her feet and her shirt is made quick work of before it’s thrown violently across the room. Her pants meet the same fate, being unbuttoned and kicked off, then kicked again so they lie atop the other garments. She collides with her mattress in a huff and lies there to stare at the ceiling of her tent, chest rising and falling rapidly.

She’s not going to be laughing when he’s forced to prove himself to her.

Why is that phrase repeating over and over in her head? More importantly, why is she closing her eyes and slipping her hand beneath the waistband of her combinations?

She pauses. It’s wrong to do this. So wrong. To touch herself with visions of him in her head is sick. But she needs it so badly, so desperately she needs this to be taken care of. The throbbing at her core ultimately wins over her conscience, and forcefully pushes guilt to the side.

Her fingers slide between the delicate folds down below, the slick moisture coating her digits easily. She imagines it’s his hand. Large and warm, playing with her and teasing out moans by dancing around her clit. He asks her if it feels good, but only incoherent noises leave her lips.

He chuckles and the breath of his laughter hits her center as he dips his head between her thighs. Lips replace fingers, sucking and leaving open-mouthed kisses heavy with tongue, ravishing her like a starved man. Her thighs clench around him and her calves tremble against his bare back. She whispers praises to him when she can find the words.

Please keep going. You’re doing so good. So good.

Both of her hands tangle themselves in his hair. She can’t help but pull on the strands the minute he slides his thumb inside her all the way to the knuckle. Her back arches off the cot at the sudden sensation but he pulls her back down, locking her in with a hand wrapped around her thigh. She can feel him smile against her, momentarily letting up the relentless forces of his mouth. He’s loving watching her squirm beneath him, because of him.

But the combined sensation of his thumb fucking her and the concentrated movements of his tongue at her clit nearly drive her to the edge. She squirms and brings her knees up around him, causing him to pull away and leave her empty.

Ya have to keep still, darlin’.

He coaxes her legs back open, spreading them apart with firm hands. But before he can return, she whispers desperate words that fall sweetly on his ears. He changes direction and begins to kiss his way north, traces of her still on his lips as they press wetly to her stomach, then her breasts, and then her neck. While he trails up her jaw, she tugs down his union suit from where it gathers at his hips. He assists her clumsily by shaking it off his legs and kicking it to the floor, where it now lies atop her own discarded clothing.

Before he takes her, he hovers on rested elbows and searches her face for any sign of reluctance. Only half of his features she can see clearly as warm oranges and yellows flicker across it from the lantern at her bedside. The fringe of his hair tickles her forehead, teasing her into closing the distance between them. With a hand on the back of his neck, she brings him down to her level and connects their lips. Their mouths move roughly against one another, their noses squishing and bending against the pressure of their touch.

He’s warm, so warm. His mouth is hot against her tongue and the points on her body where the two of them meet are ablaze with a fire that spreads down, and down, until it rests in a sweltering mess at the apex of her thighs. She needs him, were the words she’d whispered. And she needs him now. She reaches down between their two bodies to where his cock grazes against her legs and with a sure hand, takes hold of it and guides it to her entrance. She can’t see it but it feels thick in her grasp; her hold not permitting thumb and forefinger to meet.

The head slips gently inside and opens her up to him with a slow, shallow movement of his hips. He removes his lips from hers and rests his forehead against her own, looking down and indulgently watching himself disappear inside of her inch by inch. It fills her deliciously, stretching her open until he eventually bottoms out and their pelvises lie flush with one another. She lets out a sharp exhale at the contact, knowing he’s sheathed fully inside of her. Before he moves again, she brings her legs around his waist and crosses her ankles so his movements are limited to being shallow and forceful.

The cot squeaks beneath them as he pulls out and thrusts back in, slow at first. He quickly picks up the pace, pistoling his hips to give short thrusts that fill her to the hilt each time with a near-bruising force. One hand wraps around the meat of her thigh and another hand starts rubbing furious circles at her clit. She throws her head back with a wide-opened gasp at the explosive euphoric sensation of being filled by him and the simultaneous attention given to the sensitive nub. He goes even faster when he sees how close she is, and within seconds she unravels beneath him.

She notices through her clouded gaze his brows screwing together and lips parting as her soft muscles throb around the swell of his cock. It’s too much for him. He hurriedly pulls out and releases himself on her belly, coating it with spurts of his seed. He looks at her breathlessly through hooded eyes.

The two of them lie panting, him still stationed between her legs with a heaving chest and weary gaze. He leans down and places a chaste kiss on the inside of her thigh before slumping beside her and laying there in his nakedness.

She cums hard against diligent fingers. Hot and tingly ecstacy spreads from her core throughout her limbs, fluttering her eyes to the back of her skull and leaving her a panting mess. Once that passes and the drowsiness that always follows a dumbing climax sets in, she realizes she’d conjured a strange ending to her fantasy. It was one of genuine intimacy, not driven by the carnal desires of her body.

Thankfully, sleep takes over before she can begin trying to process whatever that means. She drifts off as remnants of pleasure buzz beneath her skin and warm her beneath ticking sheets.

Morning comes quickly, and the accompanying chill of a new day forces her off the cot in search of heavier clothing. She pulls fleece-lined chaps over jeans and buttons them at the waist before throwing on the bear coat she’s worn every day since Colter. As she slips her arms into the clothing, she thinks back on last night. There’s no reason to make a big deal of it. Surely men get off with much worse ideas in their heads about the people they know. She hopes all of that is behind her now that it’s been forced out of her system.

But this is not the case.

This hope is massacred in vain shortly after being conceived. For the day is ablaze with yearning, shame, and raging inferno.

Accompanying Arthur to the hideout was soon realized as a mistake. Every small, inconsequential thing he did served to stoke the fire blistering her loins. Every word whispered atop the secluded hillock, every incidental brushing of skin, and every intentional one too. It all fanned incessantly at consuming flames.

She rides back to camp alone with heavy pockets and a heavier conscience. And as she approaches the grounds, she sees her friend, the blonde woman, standing guard outside. Without thought, she throws her reins and swings herself off the horse, hitting the earth hard and swift. A blustering storm brews inside her, fighting against fire and losing. She approaches Karen, treading heavily over branch and stone, a wild look in her eyes.

“Karen!” She calls out.

The woman turns to face her, her rifle lowering just as quickly as it’s raised.

“Oh, it’s just you. You here to tell me I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about again? If so, you can keep on walkin’, bigshot.”

She sighs and runs a frustrated hand through her wind-tangled hair.

“No! No, I- I didn’t mean it,” she says, with an unmistakable sound of desperation in her voice. “Karen, you were right.”

Karen’s tensed shoulders sink beneath her coat and her features soften. She doesn’t seem to understand, but she’s no longer angry. It’s difficult to be when her friend stands before her, uncharacteristically vulnerable and fumbling with words.

Whatever forces are at work here, be it the chill, the moon, or an unknown third thing, it can be certain she is out of her depth, adrift in deep ice waters. And he is calling to her like a siren’s song but she knows it is an illusion she has conjured up and there is no solace allowed to be found there. He cannot take her like she needs so deeply to be taken by him. It would ruin them, for certain. Because they are not a wholesome people, and despite that, their bond has been forged by goodness. Something like that is uncommon for folk like themselves. It should be held closely, protected from whatever may destroy it, even if it is from herself. It’s for that reason she withdraws her hand, rides alone, averts wandering eyes, and tries her utmost best to quench the flames.

And yet, it has been only a day.

“You were right.”

#red dead redemption 2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 x reader #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr #rdr2 fic #rdr2 x reader #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur x reader #smut #rdr2 smut #red dead redemption smut #arthur morgan x reader smut

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rivetingrosie4 · 28 days

Text

What a Life (Morgan & Family: A Fluff Dump, Pt. 2)

credit to @foundynnel i believe for 2 of the edits above

𑁦𐂂𑁦

Summary: Part of a modern au (and post gang) fluff dump work. Just a scene in which Arthur and reader enjoy secluded family life with their very young son. Arthur is a cute and loving dad and is adored by reader.

Tags: fluff without plot, family fluff, romantic fluff, domestic setting, parenthood

Word count: 2,660

In the cool shadow of the cabin, thrown long by the late morning sun, you sit with your little son, watching him play in the sandbox. The mourning dove’s rounded, plaintive hoots are parried by the sharp, tinkling warbles of goldfinches in the nearby pine branches, and the fragrances of crisp mist and thick sod linger in the mountain air.

You watch the faint glimmer of day paint the crests of Gabriel’s cupid’s bow with light, his plump lips resting between his two rotund cheeks as he concentrates on the toys before him. The wispy feathers of his splayed lashes bow and rise with each blink. His beautiful, shimmering eyes inspect each toy, each color, each shape. Out of all the blocks, large puzzle pieces, rings, balls, and animal toys half-buried in the sand, he has landed on one. You watch the bulbous pads and segments of each tiny, clumsy finger curl to a strong, stable grasp around the edge of the object of his aim—a large block with an Appaloosa sketched and painted lovingly on the side.

“Just like your daddy,” you whisper to yourself.

Dipping your fingers into the sand and feeling its chill envelop your skin, you look up with a smile to gaze in the direction of the stables. In the distance, you catch sight of Arthur hauling a huge saddle and its accompanying tack, a moment before he disappears through the door and into the shaded interior.

You recall the quiet rustling of his rising this morning when he’d been up before the sun, as he often is. And the way he’d kept from waking the baby in his room, intentionally leaving you to reap the reward of your son’s customary gleeful smile, his bounce in his crib, and his lifting of his arms for you.

You turn back to your eleven-month-old with a burgeoning smirk. “Wanna come help Mama make some sourdough?”

“Yeah,” he immediately chirps, recognizing nothing but the lilt of a question in your voice. But he doesn’t look up at you, still captured by the blocks and puzzle pieces.

You stand and take a few steps away to prompt him. “Well let’s go!” you call.

He braces himself on the sand with his palms, a moment later lifting his tush into the air. When he straightens, his brows knot, and his lips dangle from between his cheeks as he gazes down confoundedly at the discomfort of sand stuck to his flesh.

You snort a laugh as you cover the sandbox behind him. “Just go like this, Gabe Baby.”

You show him your flattened hands and slowly brush them together.

His brows don’t budge as he looks back and forth from your hands to his own, unable to fully brush them.

“Like this,” you whisper, gently taking his wrists and swiftly brushing his palms back and forth over each other.

When the sand is removed, he toddles to follow you up towards the cabin, and you carry him when you reach the oak staircase to the back door.

As you turn onto the wraparound porch, you notice Arthur now hefting a huge bale of hay by its cords into the stable, his black leather hat shading most of his face in the distance. But you like to imagine he wears a subconscious smile, now enjoying a life of simplicity, filled with nature and horses and art and family and love, tucked away from the gnarled heartache that gang life had left in its wake.

“Sandy baby,” you mumble when you arrive inside and close the back door behind you.

You promptly remove both your shoes and strip Gabriel to his diaper, tossing his sandy clothes into the hamper.

“Are you dry?” you ask vainly as he starts to toddle away. “Wait, are you dry?” You deftly hook a finger down his back and into his diaper before he can fully get away.

Peering into his diaper, you find no present. You carefully squeeze his bottom to discover no liquid deposit.

When you release him, he immediately darts down the hall. You follow and walk into the kitchen, beckoning him to join you. When he does and you bend to pick him up, he whines to be allowed to remain standing on his own.

“Well how’re you gonna see from down there?” you lightly ask.

When he shakes his head, you half-frown. It was just a couple weeks ago that eleven-month-old Gabriel began walking. Since then, he’s always wriggling out of your arms and dashing across rooms, seemingly already excited to be as independent as he can be.

At first, it stung. With the love and special intimacy of mother and son—and with even the chemistry and well-being of your bodies both dependent on the other—the two of you had been closer than peas in a pod, glued at the hip for so long. It’s always been and still is a precious bond to you, though its daily aspects continue to gradually change. And it was hard to so suddenly feel a little unneeded. But Arthur has helped you find a comfort in the balance of realizing that your feelings are only natural, and that you’ve been raising a wonderful and healthy little boy, with this change as just another bit of proof.

As well as the fact that Gabriel still likes to cherry-pick when he’s carried and when he walks on his own. You suspect that like any human, his adamant desire for independence doesn’t do one thing to hinder his deep enjoyment and fierce need of being held.

So you turn and begin pulling ingredients and dishes from the cupboard, at last going to the fridge to retrieve your sourdough starter. You begin mixing ingredients in your big bowl atop the counter, when you hear a whimper and feel a few hard tugs at your palazzos. And you smirk.

You glance down to find him with arms outstretched and upheld for you, bouncing on his tiptoes with longing. You stoop and lift him to you, hugging him to your hip and pressing a few kisses soundly to his smooth cheek.

Describing each action aloud to him, you finish mixing, dust the countertop with copious amounts of flour, and turn the bowl with your free hand to dump the dough.

“Now we knead,” you almost sing, in hushed tones.

Perched on your hip, his plump little arm drapes with familiarity and utmost contentedness over the back of your shoulder. He watches your every gesture with a mixture of restful curiosity and heightened interest.

You push the dough away and pull it towards you again and again, tucking the edges underneath as you do, to form a smooth, rounded surface on top.

“You wanna feel it? You wanna knead?” you ask.

Leaning forward, you let him reach and press his tiny hand into the supple surface of the cool dough.

“Gentle,” you say, showing him the way you keep your fingers outstretched and softly brush and pat the surface of the dough with the pads of your fingertips. “No squeezing.”

The two of you watch his little fingers delve into the pliant mass of dough, leaving a mark of small craters. When they begin to slowly bounce back, you watch his face instead of the dough.

He releases a single cooed sigh of delight as he looks at you with a bright smile, which you heartily return.

How you love, you love, you love him.

You sprinkle the dough with flour and rest it in a basket for its turn to prove. After fetching a dough you’d left proving hours before, you carefully score it with one long slice for expansion, and several small strokes for a quaint wheat kernel design on the other side.

“Mama.” Gabriel pats your sternum and rests a couple fingers past his lips.

“You hungry?” you ask.

When he nods, you brush a hand down the slope of the back of his head and kiss his temple. You add as you set him to his feet, “Let me get this in the oven, then I’ll feed you.”

After setting the parchment-papered sourdough in its cast iron dutch oven and pouring a bain marie past the paper, you place the whole thing in the oven and set a timer. You glance at the oven window with a small smile, eager to see the crispy crust on your extra-sour boule. Since you first noticed its resemblance to Gabriel’s tummy, you’ve made a tradition of kissing the top of the boule, then indelicately turning Gabriel sideways in your arms and blowing a raspberry on his bare belly, making him cackle hysterically. These days, he’s even begun giggling when you turn him in your arms and before you ever kiss his belly, already tickled by the anticipation alone.

With Gabriel in tow, you walk to the couch in the living room. Gabriel rests both arms over the seat cushion and tries to lift one leg up over the edge, but you reach your hands under his arms and pull him into your lap.

Just before you unhook your bra from its strap to nurse, the two of you hear the back door open.

Gabriel’s eyes widen, and a grin begins to pull on the corners of his mouth. “Da,” he says.

He wiggles down off the couch, and as he toddles down the hall, you listen to his bare little feet patting quietly along the hardwood floor. You smile to yourself at the precious sound, so deeply dear to you.

As you hear Arthur’s rustling, jingling presence in the doorway and the naturally firm, heavy footfalls of his work boots, you imagine him resting his black hat on the wall as his small son comes around the corner in only his diaper, bared rounded belly and all.

When you hear the playful growl and the resultant squeal and cackle, your grin splits wider.

“You’re in your nethers, baby boah!”

You can detect the pinch of a smile in Arthur’s voice and the breath of laughter with the last couple words.

More little pads of bare feet as Gabriel comes running back around the corner and down the hall. He hesitates as he toddles, turning back to ensure Arthur’s tailing, eager to play this game with his father.

Still, when Arthur leans around the corner and pulls an exaggeratedly silly face with an outright grunt, Gabriel’s little body gives a tiny jump. His squeal and adorable laughter ring out into the air. He clumsily darts into the kitchen.

When his father follows with a few long strides and the sturdy clops of his boots, he brings with him the musty scents of alfalfa hay and tanned rawhide, of trail dust and undiluted sunshine. And the two subsequently begin an elaborate game of peek-a-boo, back and forth around the island. You can’t help but laugh along at the purest sound of undiluted joy—the beauty and innocence of your own child so easily tickled and contented by life and love—as you turn on the couch and watch the pair. No matter how many times Arthur jumps out to stop him with a silly face and a low hoot or growl, Gabriel instantly screams and squeals, his body utterly racked with tightly coiled cackles.

Arthur wheezes and snickers every time.

“Oh my God, listen to him!” you laugh.

It’s always another several seconds before Gabriel totally recovers and manages to catch his breath, his laughter smoothing with each heave of air.

With the next turn of their game, Arthur lingers behind the island when Gabriel rounds it, not jumping out even when his son takes reticent steps forward, looking for him. Arthur continues to linger, even quietly backing up to hide himself, watching his son for the right moment to strike.

Finally Arthur leaps out, and Gabriel jumps with the highest squeal and loudest cackles you’ve heard yet.

You and Arthur both burst with your own laughter at his reaction.

When your son’s breathing finally evens, you call, “Gabriel, I thought you were hungry?”

“Oh, were you about to eat, son?” Arthur asks in his deep timbre. “You hungry?”

Gabriel nods and pats a hand to his belly above the rim of his diaper.

“Well, better go see Mama,” Arthur quietly grunts as he picks his son up by the underarms and sets him on his hip out of habit. Arthur lifts him over the couch back and sets him down into your lap, then remains behind the couch himself, watching over your shoulder.

After cushioning your back and adjusting him in your arms, you reach beneath your tee, unhook the front of your bra, and gently bring Gabriel to your breast to nurse. He latches on immediately, very well accustomed to your routine. A certain profound peace washes over you as you watch him. His lips flange around you as he suckles; his quiet breaths through his nose briefly pause each time he swallows; and his plump little arm rests wistfully over your chest.

Many people may look away, abashed and discomfited, unable to fit something at once both so innocent and intimate into their world. But it’s always made perfect sense to you. And maybe motherhood was a dream too quaint, one not rebellious or modern enough, seemingly not daring or adventurous enough. But it was your dream.

When Gabriel spots Arthur’s face over your shoulder, he pulls away from your breast with a growingly wry grin, clearly expecting to continue the game from moments ago. Droplets of your milk spill between you and his mouth as he voices a syllable and lifts his arm, attempting to goad Arthur into another silly face.

Arthur silently complies with cross-eyes and a sideways tongue.

Gabriel promptly giggles, and the two of you smile and chuckle at the sound.

“Don’t while he’s nursing, he’ll choke,” you lightly say.

After softly cooing and corralling Gabriel back to his feeding, you continue watching him with a contented smile. You brush your hand down over the back of his head, into the growing downy hair that curls funnily at the base of his neck. As he closes his eyes, you brush the backs of your curled fingers down over his temple, and gently trail your fingertips across the velvet flower-petal skin of his plump baby cheek.

You hear the long, relaxed sound of Arthur’s husky breath over your shoulder, a sound you know very well, especially these days.

“What a life, huh?” he quietly says.

He means to facetiously point out Gabriel’s current lot—nursing at his mother’s breast with his father at the ready to make him smile and laugh. That is, a life full of love and joy, well taken care of, and absent of a care in the world. Just as he should be for now.

It doesn’t take you a few moments, and you’re turning to look into Arthur’s cerulean-sage eyes. A knowingness resides in your gaze. Because you yourself, as well as your husband, have been given all you’d so deeply and totally longed for—and longed, a word too weak—more than you could’ve ever imagined you’d actually live to get.

“Yeah,” you quietly, pensively respond. “What a life.”

The love of your life holds your gaze, and understands.

Your love and gratefulness are immeasurable and uncontainable, filling you and stretching past the bounds of your body and being, like fragmented granules of glittering dust floating from a burst star.

Strangely enough, even with all the joy and contentment and peace, the words and the shared gaze are not without a mingling of loss and ache.

They are not gone entirely. But you both have someone now, to join you in weathering them.

You are not alone.

Arthur leans to you, and you share a few kisses, soft as breath. You turn and close your eyes a moment as he rests his forehead to your temple. And you both gaze down at your son with contented smiles.

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mlmxreader · 5 months

Text

Apprehensions | Arthur Morgan x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ i miss arthur morgan dearly. it’s so bad. i humbly request arthur morgan x gn!reader (male!reader works too, idrc) w/ the prompt “get inside, you’ll catch a cold”!!! kisses mwah - @mockerycrow ❞

: ̗̀➛ Arthur's good to you, it's a shame that he doesn't really allow himself some grace.

: ̗̀➛ nudity, smoking, swearing, scenes of a sexual nature

: ̗̀➛ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

You and Lenny had been out hunting, which came as a surprise to no one, as the two of you did often wander away for a few hours; you worked well as a team, as one of you would chase whatever you were hunting, while the other took the shot. It worked every time, and you often had a good haul to bring back to camp; at least, today you did.

Although that didn’t mean that the weather had not been cruel.

Heavy, pounding rain had caused many of the open fields and pathways to become deeply flooded and slick with mud; your boots squelched with each step, and your clothes were so sodden that they were heavy to lumber around.

You were shivering, soaked to the bone and quite literally dripping, by the time that you started to approach the campfire; but a sharp whistle caught your attention, and when you looked over, you saw Arthur standing under his tent as he gestured for you to go over.

You did so a little too eagerly, surprised when he caught your elbow gently and pulled you under the small shelter; he was never rough with you, he made it a point not to be, and he was quick to pull the fabric of his tent down to protect you a little more from the rain.

One quick look at you, and he frowned.

“You need to get inside, you’ll catch a cold,” he told you quietly, letting you go and rummaging through his trunk. He pulled out a shirt and a pair of trousers, tossing them onto his cot. “This should do it… shouldn’t be too bad.”

You swallowed thickly, taking off your hat and clearing your throat. “Thank you…”

He looked up at you, his mouth falling agape for a moment. “D’ya want me to wait outside?”

You shook your head, shrugging as you hummed softly and started to unbutton your shirt. “No, I mean… it’s not the first time you’ve seen me naked, so…”

Arthur sat on his cot, facing the wall as he lit a cigarette; he didn’t mean to look, he really didn’t, but when he heard your boots clatter to the side and the thud of your trousers… he did steal a quick look, blushing as he was unable to move.

You were fucking magnificent; he swallowed thickly, biting at the inside of his lip, but he was too slow to look away, and when you caught him looking, you grinned.

“Arthur?”

“I’m sorry, I-”

“You can look,” you told him quietly, shaking your head. “You can touch if you want, too.”

The blush on Arthur’s features deepened as he watched you get closer; he slowly put his hands on your hips, pulling you to stand between his legs. One hand travelled up, exploring your chest with rough and clumsy fingertips before he stood up, audibly gulping.

“You, erm, you look real good,” he whispered, voice hoarse and heavy.

You put your hands on his chest, tugging at his shirt slightly. “So do you, Mister Morgan.”

His adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he reluctantly pulled away, clearing his throat; it wasn’t that he didn’t want to touch you, it wasn’t that he didn’t want to kiss you and to make you moan his name… of course he wanted all of that and more, but he was well aware that because of what you both did for a living, it would never last.

He was an outlaw, you were a gunslinger that Dutch had brought in not even a year ago… it was never going to work. He didn’t want you to feel the pain that he knew would inevitably come along. He really didn’t.

You were too good for that, you could have gotten out of the life; settled down, had a family, made something of yourself. He could never do that. He would die an outlaw, but you… you had a chance.

“Arthur?” You sat down beside him on his cot, shivering a little as the cold air blew through and hit your naked skin. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” he shook his head, sighing heavily. “I just… can’t do this, not with you… you ain’t gonna die an outlaw, you ain’t… you don’t want me… it’s only gonna end bad.”

“Oh, Arthur,” you whispered, putting your hand on his shoulder and giving it a little squeeze. “You… I do want you, and whatever the fuck happens… I can handle it. Trust me, I’ve been through a lot of shit. I can handle it.”

“You can get outta here, y’know,” he told you. “You have a chance to have a life… I’m gonna die an outlaw.”

“And I’m gonna die a gunslinger,” you admitted. “I mean, for fuck’s sake, it’s all I’m good at - it’s all I know… I’m not getting out of this life, either.”

He spared a glance at you, chewing at the inside of his bottom lip. “You oughtta get dressed. Y’might catch your death if you keep your clothes off.”

You leaned over, daring to sweetly kiss his cheek; you didn’t mind that he watched you get dressed, in fact, you quite enjoyed the attention. You just wished that he would actually let go a little; that he wouldn’t be so staunch about not hurting you.

You had survived the life of a gunslinger for years before you had met Dutch and Hosea, you would survive a little heartbreak if anything were to ever go bad for you and Arthur. But you knew it wasn’t that easy, so you sighed, sitting down beside him again and leaning your head against his shoulder as you sighed.

“What if we take it slow?” You asked him. “Take everything at your pace.”

Arthur glared at you for a moment before he nodded. “Y’sure?”

“Absolutely.”

He thought about it for a moment; you were so eager, so wanting, and although he wanted it so badly, he still had his apprehensions… but then he saw how you were looking at him, and he sighed. “Then, yeah.”

#mlem writes #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x y/n #arthur morgan x yn #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 x you #rdr2 imagine #rdr2 fanfiction #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 fic #rdr 2 fanfiction #rdr 2 #rdr2

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cal-tastic · 5 months

Text

Two Shots Down

Pairing: arthur morgan x fem!reader

Wordcount: 1,600+

Synopsis: a one-night stand after meeting in a dusty saloon.

Warnings: mdni!! porn with plot, one night stand, rough sex, unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap your willy!), dirty talk, alcohol consumption.

____________________________________________

The parlor door of the saloon rattled as footsteps approached from the entrance. Alert, as always, your eyes shot up to the door, watching as an unfamiliar face made his way to the bar.

“What can I get you, Mister?”

“Nothin’ just yet. Just takin’ a rest before I head back South.”

The man, clad in traveling clothes, pulled the stool in front of him out before taking a seat. It wasn’t long before his gaze met yours, causing you to look in the opposing direction.

“Evenin’..”

His breath was a pungent whiskey— bourbon, perhaps; the kind that burns your throat. You were certain if this man kissed you it would burn yours, too. Maybe that’s what was so enticing.

“Evening. Haven’t seen you around before.. Small town, I remember a face once I see one.”

He gave you a shrug as he took his hat off, setting it on the countertop. “I’m just the same, Miss.. my first time comin’ round these parts.”

He had a stature unlike anyone you had met before— he held himself with certainty, like he had seen it all before

“Welcome to Valentine. You got a name?”

“Arthur.”

He took a look back over to the bartender before turning his attention back to you. “You drink?”

“I’m at the bar, aren’t I?” You said, nodding to the place in which you both sat.

Arthur shook his head, laughing under his breath. Even his laugh was gruff. He placed two coins on the bartop, sliding them over to the bartender. “Two shots of Brandy.”

The man placed a shot in front of each of you, Arthur taking his while you took your own.

The two of you downed the spirits, placing the glasses back upon the counter for the worker to gather.

“Do you live in town?” He finally asked

“Not at all. I don’t live in any town, to be quite honest with you.”

“Is that so?”

“Yessir. I’m a travelin’ gal, I don’t belong to no town.”

He seemed to get a kick out of that— a low chuckle leaving his lips as he leaned against the bar. “We’re just one in the same, aren’t we?”

“S’ppose so.” You grinned, admiring the man before you. Something was so different about him, so unique, yet you just couldn’t place it. Being on the road, you never had time to find attraction to anyone, but sitting here in this bar, you found yourself entertaining the thought.

“You got a wife, Arthur?”

“Never had time to marry. Nor the interest.” He admitted with a shrug, tapping his fingers against the wood of the counter.

You weren’t sure what had come over you, whether it was the booze or the fact that you hadn’t gotten laid in months, but something was nagging at you to give it a shot with this man.

“There’s a hotel just next door.. I’m certain neither of us will be here in the morning.”

“What are you implyin’, Miss?”

“Let’s just say we could save a little cash if we shared a room.”

He reckoned with his thoughts for a moment before glancing back to you. “I don’t uh.. I don’t usually do this, but I’m sure once wouldn’t be no harm.”

A fire burned at your core with just the idea. This wasn’t like you at all.

As you stood to make your way towards the parlor door, so did he, revealing to you just how much larger he was than you. Even in your boots, he was still nearly a foot taller.

He followed behind as you led the way— it was clear that he was surveying the area for trouble. Before you could even reach into the pocket of your skirt, Arthur placed a coin on the table in front of the innkeeper. The man gave you a key to your room, Arthur leading the way up the stairs. With each step closer to the room, a slew of nerves and desire washed over you. By time he finally got the door unlocked, you grabbed him by the collar, pulling him down to kiss you. Whether it was the shock or the need that got to him, you weren’t sure, but it was enough to cause him to holst you up, resting his hands under your thighs as your legs wrapped around his waist.

He stumbled back towards the bed, your figure settling in his lap as his kisses become hasty.

His hands danced along your sides, sliding from your waist to the outer edges of your legs, squeezing them gently as a low groan left his lips. Beneath you, his groin rushed with blood, hardening with each slight movement you gave.

Arthur breathlessly broke away from the kiss, his eyes half-lidded as he met his gaze with yours.

“You sure ‘bout this?”

“I’d be damned if I’m not.” You laughed, your hands resting on his shoulders.

Without another question about it, he kissed you once more. It was as if he had been starved— deprived from the touch of another.

His hands worked to undo the buttons of your blouse, pulling it open. It was a matter of seconds before he opened the front of your corset, pulling it off of your frame.

Arthur cupped your breast with his large hand, leaning down to kiss your neck tenderly. You felt as heat grew between your legs, a timid moan slipping out of you as he squeezed your breast. You were quick to undo the buttons of his shirt as he kissed down your shoulder. By time you had undone his shirt, he flipped the two of you over, your back now resting on the bed.

He slipped your skirt down, eager to take you in. Once he finally discarded your undergarments, he pulled away, admiring you stripped down before him.

“Jesus..” He grinned, taking in the sight.

“What? What is it?” You asked, sitting up slightly.

“Nothin’ at all, Miss.. Just haven’t had a look at a woman in a long time.. ‘Specially not one of your caliber..”

He leaned down, pushing your legs over his shoulders as one of his hands gripped your hip. “Look at that.. All a mess, just for me..”

Finally, he brought his lips to your heat, pressing a kiss against the mound just above your swollen clit. He swirled his tongue slowly around the bud, his free hand finding its way to your folds, slicking his fingers with your arousal. Your hips bucked forward with a whine, your hands grasping his hair in a clenched fist.

He hummed against your cunt, his fingers slowly pushing past your entrance. He thrust his fingers into you, a slur of moans leaving you as your back arched.

He kept a steady rhythm, his tongue working to please you just the same.

As he picked up the pace, you yearned for more— his fingers weren’t enough. You needed to feel him inside of you.

“A-Arthur.. I need you..”

He was so lost in the moment of pleasing you, that he couldn’t pull himself away. You pulled his hair back, forcing him to look up at you. “I need your cock.. C’mon, baby, I need it..” You begged.

It was clear he needed you just as bad when he sat up, undoing the belt of his pants, pulling his trousers off, his briefs tugged down with them. His length sprung out, hardened and engorged.

“I’ve got to warn you, Darlin’.. I’m not too gentle..”

Quite honestly, that was the least of your worries. You needed him any way you could get.

You leaned back against the bed, your legs spread for him as he settled himself between them. A low groan left his lips as he pushed his girth into your opening. He gripped your hips as he slowly pushed himself in farther. “Fuck..”

You gripped his biceps as he began to thrust into you, his hips rolling forward. Yet another moan escaped you as he grew faster in pace

“So tight.. and so goddamn wet.” He murmured, his speed increasing as his grip tightened on your sides. Just as you felt yourself getting lost in the pleasure, he slipped himself out of you, flipping your body over against the mattress

Without warning, he slammed himself into you, causing a loud yelp from you

Your hands gripped the sheets of the bed as his thrusts became relentless, his hands holding your hips.

“Such a good girl..”

The harsh thrusts of the man above you were enough to leave you speechless, nothing but small whimpers leaving your mouth.

Arthur reached up, his hand grabbing the bedpost to stable himself as he fucked into you. He took a handful of your hair, pushing you down into the pillows

“H-Harder…f-f..fuck..”

Sure enough, he listened.

As your hand reached down to circle your clit, he pounded into you harder and faster than ever before, his own moans edging you closer and closer to finishing.

A wave of pleasure shocked through your body, breathless moans leaving your lips as your legs began to shake

It wasn’t long before Arthur slipped himself out of you, his warm seed coating your lower back as a low moan erupted from him.

You laid below him, too fucked out and tired to move as you caught your breath. When he finally overcame his climax, he reached for his hankerchief, cleaning his essence from your skin.

“Goddamn, woman.. You’re somethin’ else..” He huffed, collapsing beside you. He pulled you close to him, his skin glistening with sweat.

“You weren’t wrong when you said you were rough..” A breathless laugh followed your statement as you leaned into his touch. Someone who had just been so vigorous was now so gentle, pulling you close to him and kissing your forehead gently.

You knew this wouldn’t last, but you’d give anything for just one moment longer.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption two #red dead 2 #red dead redemption arthur #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan smut #rdr2 smut #rdr2 arthur #arthur morgan rdr2 #rdr2 fic #red dead #red dead smut #red dead arthur #red dead arthur morgan #red dead redemption #red dead redemption community #red dead redemption 2 smut

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strwbite · 11 months

Note

i can already tell this is about to be my new fav blog… can i request something about john and arthur (separately?? whatever is easiest) falling for a fem gunslinger who’s new to the gang?? :)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ A/N; how sweet of you to say, anon!! thank you so much! :D <333 and yes, of course you can! gonna be so honest here, i got SUPER into writing arthur's part and made it way too long, so this post is condensed to just arthur's perspective. i'm currently writing up john's, but i think it'd make the post a bit too long if i included both, so i decided to go ahead and post this one tonight! i hope to have john's up some time tomorrow—in a separate post so nothing is too long! i hope you understand and i am so excited! i had a lot of fun writing this for you!:D i hope it's in character for arthur, i tried my best!:) anyways, enough rambling, let's get into it!

♡ ; WARNINGS; fluff, some angsty themes, descriptions of a wound, hurt/comfort ♡ ; SUMMARY; you tend to arthur's wounds and he realizes just how much he cares for you ♡ ; RATING; sfw ♡ ; CHARACTERS; arthur morgan ♡ ; DETAILS; 3.5k words, part one - find john's part here (wip)

“Arthur Morgan!”

Your voice was hushed in your throat as you whisper-shouted his name through the air of Horseshoe Overlook, your words sounding more like a scold than a greeting. Said scolding hung heavy over Arthur and he tipped his head down in embarrassment, the black leather of his hat covering what little you could see of his face. He sat in his horse's saddle, one hand holding the reins as he led her to the post. The other hand held a white-knuckled grip on the opposing shoulder, his body slouched over as he guarded it. Taking a step closer, you noticed the crimson stain seeping into button-up that lay beneath his equally bloody hand, ichor oozing out of what you could only chalk up to some sort of wound.

It was around four in the morning and most everyone at the camp was fast asleep, save for some of the camp’s night owls, who wandered around, aimlessly. You had finished your chores around camp and decided to spend some time picking up the slack where other members had failed to keep up with their responsibilities; a selfless attempt to avoid any conflict between Grimshaw and aforementioned slackers. You had been wiping down a dirtied table that sat across from the hitching posts when you were interrupted by the sound of hooves clobbering against the dew-covered grown. The hoofbeats were met with a sleep-deprived Lenny who called out, ‘Who goes there?’, which was met with Arthur’s half-hearted, ‘S’just me, Lenny.’, before he rode up to the hitching post.

“Christ, what happened to you?” You chided, rushing to his side as you took a closer look at the blood-stained hand he held over the presumed lesion. There was more blood than you had originally noticed, some of which was a deep brown that dried and seeped into the cotton of his sleeve, speaking note to just how long it had been bleeding. You reached up, gesturing for him to move his hand, but he only nursed it closer to his side, causing a grimace to spread across his face at the movement.

He was in pain, that you knew for sure—despite what you’ve learned of his durable reputation, seeing him like this worried you. You and Arthur had grown somewhat close after your arrival. At first, you had a hard time accumulating to the hectic nature of the gang, but he aided you in your transition into the Van der Linde lifestyle. He checked up on you daily, offering you food, errands—just about anything you could think of. Arthur also held conversations about your life before, allowing you to ramble on about who you are and where you came from; how different things are now—and he'd validate everything you had to say about the Gang's way of life and your upheaval. After some time, he even took to bringing you small gifts and trinkets he found when he'd run off somewhere, each time saying something along the lines of, ‘I know you ain't got none of your old stuff with you, so here, saw this and thought of you.”.

Needless to say, you had developed a strong affinity for the cowboy. So when he disappeared, seemingly without a trace, it troubled you.

You hadn’t seen or heard from him in days—in fact, no one around the camp had. Days without Arthur turned into a full week without Arthur and you couldn’t hide the concern that stirred inside of you. Despite your new position in the gang, you know this wasn’t unheard of, per se—Arthur had a habit of disappearing for days at a time, only to return with various trophies and animal pelts from his adventures. But something felt off to you, this was different. That feeling only served to be solidified when you overheard Charles muttering something along the lines of, ‘Didn’t find him when I went lookin’ earlier.’, in a passing conversation with Javier.

And yet, here he was—the cat dragged him in, albeit not without a few scratches and bruises. He slung his leg over the saddle and to the other side of his horse, a hiss slipping through his gritted teeth at the pain that seared through his shoulder at the movement. You offered him a hand and helped him down, supporting his weight to the best of your ability. After he was on the ground, you slung his non-injured arm across your shoulder, ignoring his stubborn insistence of, ‘I can walk on my own, ‘m fine.’, as you urged him to use you as support. Arthur accepted his fate and hooked his arm around your shoulders—the blood leaking from the injury at the loss of pressure—and allowed you to help him to his tent.

“Can’t believe you’d run off on us like that, Morgan—you do this a lot?” You griped at him, but concern tinged your every word. “Had everyone worried half to death—‘m glad you’re back, even though I hate seein’ you like this.”

“Ain’t nothin’ for you to make a fuss over, best you quit that bellyachin’. Don’t wanna make yourself sick worryin’ about me.” He remarked.

“Oh, Arthur, I’m always worryin’ about you.”

Arthur could hear the genuinity in your tone, so palpable and honest, and it sent a fire of guilt burning through him, his head drooping low once more in avoidance. He never meant to worry you. The last thing he ever wanted to do was keep you up at night, wondering if he was okay or if you'd ever see him again. He was adamant that a newcomer like you shouldn’t have to worry about that sort of thing in the first place—you were just getting your land legs within the gang, you shouldn’t have to concern yourself with the likes of him. Despite the remorse pooling in his stomach, it was hard to ignore the way his heart sputtered against his chest at your expressed concern. Arthur wasn’t the most in-tune with his emotions and when he was, it was scarcely pleasant. His feelings were deprecative at best, most of them leading him to believe he was undeserving of care; that everything he'd ever accomplished had been nothing but evil, hateful deeds—that he deserved all the bad things that happened to him—that would happen to him. He had it coming, of course. The thought of a lady like you caring for a wicked man like him profoundly confused him and sent his brain wracking. But even he had to admit, the way you spoke to him with such consideration piqued his interest. On one hand, he felt he wasn’t worthy of such a sweet, caring person in his life—on the other, he wondered what it would be like to be to get to know you. To open up to you. To let you in.

“I ain’t worth the fuss.” He remarked, disregarding the way his heart heaved heavy in his ears at the thought of something more tangible between the two of you. He averted his attention back to the wound he nursed on his shoulder, taking notice of the grime and debris that surrounded the gash. He assumed that all the poking and prodding at it with less-than-clean hands egged on the infection that dared to fester. His adrenaline had worn off at this point. His shoulder ached and throbbed.

“Just got myself a souvenir from an O’Driscoll, s’all—graze at that, mind you. Ain’t nothin’ to write home about—why’re you so concerned anyways, Miss?”

“Oh sure, just a graze,” you scoffed and rolled your eyes, your tone dripping with sarcasm. Despite his aloof demeanor, you continued guiding him to his tent with slow, tentative steps as you supported his weight with your own. “‘Cause, Arthur, that could get nasty real quick and I ain’t too keen on lettin’ you up and die by the hands of an O’Driscoll. Graze or not, you’re lettin’ me doctor you up—and I mean proper.”

Arthur opened his mouth to argue—to insist that he would be fine, that he didn’t need a lady such as yourself to waste precious time on a man like him, but the words fell short when he turned to look down at you. Your gaze met his own, your demeanor softened with worry and care, and it sent a flight of butterflies he didn’t quite know he had fluttering in his stomach. How could he say no to you? With a long-winded exhale, Arthur nodded his head in response, his eyes darting around the camp to avoid your stare.

“Sure.”

When the two of you reached his modest tent, you eased him into a seated position on the cot before taking a step back. With an insignificant gesture that said ‘one second’, you scurried off to grab the much-needed supplies, leaving the cowboy to sit and fester in his stirring emotions and searing pain. You weren’t gone too long, though, and you returned with a bottle of whiskey in one hand. The other held a strip of flannel and a roll of gauze.

“Now, this ain’t gonna feel good by any means,” you murmured as you lowered yourself to the cot, taking a seat next to him.

Arthur had been through this process many times—several of those times were unfortunately at the mercy of less-than-careful hands. Needless to say, he knew the pain and he knew it well. His painstaking fate mattered little to him at the moment, though, as all he could focus on was how close you sat to him. He’d sat next to you before, sure—but not like this. You sat with pure intentions, leg brushing up against his own as you leaned in to examine the wound with such care. He couldn’t quite wrap his head around it—you knew of the things he had done, his reputation certainly preceded him. You knew exactly the type of man he was, tied up in his wrongdoings and sins, and yet, you didn’t question a single thing. Instead, you gave him a brief scolding and treated him with a gentle kindness he’d never quite received. You took care of him. The moment felt tender like never before, filled with consideration and attentiveness—Arthur couldn’t recall a time he had been so vulnerable with someone, save for Mary Linton, which was long over and done with.

“Don’t I know it.” He grumbled.

Arthur shifted his position on the cot, leaning forward to give you a better view of the supposed ‘graze’. What you could make of the surrounding flesh beneath his shirt’s fabric was red and inflamed, a testament to the trauma it bore. The wound itself pulsated as blood trickled down, matting the ripped fabric of the shirt to his skin. Your feeble fingers grazed around the edges as you struggled to get a closer look through squinted eyes. Some of the view was obstructed by clotting blood and torn fabric—Arthur grimaced at the sensation of your touch against the inflamed skin.

“How long I got, doc?” He queried, voice hitching in his throat in pain while he attempted to make light of the situation. You had to admit, it was a nasty wound—a bullet to the shoulder was rarely a welcomed invitation, especially to those who didn’t receive care from a proper medic, but you had seen worse.

“Well, Mister Morgan,” you spoke as your hands worked the cap of the whiskey bottle, a loud ‘pop!’ signaling that it was open. You lifted the flannel to the top of the bottle and flipped it over, soaking the material as the stench of alcohol flooded your nose. “You’ll live. Probably. Y’know you’re lucky you found yourself at the hands of a medic such as myself.”

The two of you shared a laugh at your jest—in all actuality, you had little to no idea what you were doing when it came to anything medicinal. The best you knew was to clean it with whiskey, drink the aforementioned whiskey to help with the pain, wrap it up, and pray it doesn't get infected. But you would be damned if you didn’t at least try to assist the poor man; you didn’t know Arthur to ask for help. The little time you had spent with the man proved him to be self-reliant, sometimes to a fault. The fact that he accepted your aid, albeit begrudgingly, was a surefire sign that something was wrong.

Your gesture didn’t go over his head, either, as he watched you work the bottle and cloth with attentive hands. He shook his head and a nervous-lipped grin twitched at his lips as he looked down at the liquid courage in your hands.

“S’pose you’re right. Dunno what I’d do with myself if it weren’t for you.”

“You’d do nothin’, I imagine it’d be a lonesome life, Mister Morgan. ‘Sides, who else ‘round here would fix up your,” You paused, as if searching for the right words, “Graze wounds, if you hadn’t met me?”

And with that, you raised the alcohol-soaked strip to the wound and gingerly pressed it against the laceration, dabbing it in repetition to remove any excess blood or dirt. Arthur flinched in response to the cloth brushing against the inflammation, followed by a small hiss slipping through gritted teeth as the raw sting of whiskey sept into the gash. You worked with vigilance and the most delicate touch you could manage, and he sat still for you, knowing it was for the better. The consequences posed if you didn’t flush it out served enough for him to bite his tongue and suffer through the pain.

When you finished the final touches of your doctoring, you pulled the flannel away and discarded it to the cot beside you. You replaced it with the roll of gauze and worked it around his arm, covering the scrape and securing it to itself. After finishing, your hand lingered on the unbothered skin below, your thumb rubbing circles against the skin to soothe him.

“It ain't perfect by any means, but that should do it.” You assured him with a gentle smile.

At this point, you sat so close to him. You enveloped Arthur’s every sense, from the wavering heat of your hand against his arm to the smell of gunpowder and wildflowers wafting off of you—the sight of you peering up at him with such fondness sent his heart racing once again. His hands fidgeted, nervous and awkward, as he stared at you for just a moment longer than necessary, before breaking away. The grip you had on Arthur grew tighter and tighter with every moment he spent in your presence. He wasn’t the best with these sorts of things, finding it all too complicated and confusing to put into words; he even rambled about it in his journal, writing, ‘I am not sure why I find myself so drawn to her; how do I explain this to her if I can’t even explain it to myself?’. From the way you carried yourself across the camp with such poise, to the way you gawked at him from across the campfire sent sparks flying in Arthur’s mind. Not to mention the eager way you rushed up to speak with him every time he came home—he was enamored with you, as nervous as he was to admit it.

“Thank you,” Arthur murmured as his eyes darted from yours to the thumb tracing circles on his bicep. He prayed you wouldn’t notice the flush that crept across his cheeks, starting from his nose, traveling all the way to his ears and neck.

Despite his wishful thinking, you noticed it, but you found it endearing. You had never seen Arthur this flustered—tongue-tied, sure, but never quite like this.

“I sure do appreciate it.”

You gave him a soft smile, eyes trailing along the heat that crept across his sun-kissed cheeks. You started to stand from the cot, keeping your eyes set on him as you rose to your feet. “‘Course, Arthur. Now, you just go ahead and rest up, all right?”

He nodded along as you spoke, avoiding looking into your eyes with a sense of embarrassment. It was never his intention to worry you, and he knew he'd be beating himself up for weeks over this entire endeavor. “Thank you for takin’ care of me—didn’t think you’d much care ‘bout it, 'bout me. ‘M sorry for bein’ gone so long.”

“Pfft,” You stifled a small laugh from within your throat as you placed a flattened palm against his non-injured shoulder, urging him to look up at you. “Don’t mention it. And ‘course I care ‘bout it. I care ‘bout you, Arthur—we all do.”

You offered him, yet another, sweet smile and used your thumb to rub the same circles against his shoulder. If you’d let him, Arthur was certain he'd stay like this for hours—under the comfort of your touch as the soft glow from oil lamps and moonlight shone over you. Your time spent with him was short-lived, sure, but there was no denying the way he gravitated to you. You were a fresh face, so kind and sweet to everyone you met, despite your reticence, and he found himself wanting to spend time with you. He'd ask you to accompany him into town, even if it were just to drop off some mail or pick up something on behalf of Dutch. He even took to bringing you along while hunting or going on scouting missions, despite initial hesitance. He was reluctant to put your in harm's way, but with some convincing on your end and a showcase of your way around a gun, he obliged you and found himself enjoying the company.

The world made sense when you were around, not so much when you weren’t.

“I care 'bout you, too. I'd even say I enjoy havin' you around, 'specially when you're fixin' me up." Arthur blurted out after a moment's silence, hands fidgeting as the boldness of his words sat heavy on his shoulders. Nerves soon sat in and his stomach twisted into a bundle of anxiety, sweat beading at his hands and forehead—did he say the wrong thing?

"Pardon, I, uh, not that I don't always enjoy your company, ‘cause I sure do-you're, uh, a real pleasure to be around, s'just—am I talkin' too much? Feels like ‘m talkin’ too much.”

He blabbered on, stammering over his words as he struggled to form a coherent sentence and you couldn’t conceal the laugh that slipped from your lips. It wasn’t one of malice or mockery; it was pure admiration.

“Oh, Arthur,” you sighed, your voice filled with warmth and affection that sent a fire of nerves burning through him. With a mix of nervousness and longing, you leaned in closer, bridging the gap between the two of you. Your eyes locked, and you could sense the anticipation in the cool air surrounding you. At that moment, time seemed to falter and come to a standstill. One of your hands caressed his hair, running your fingers through the long locks just before your lips met his in a tender, heartfelt kiss. It was soft, sweet, and everything he had ever wanted. His entire body tensed up as he felt your touch against him—it was supple and delicate, a tenderness he had seldom been gifted before, such a contrast to the pain that scorched through his shoulder and his very being. As if he needed any more confirmation, the feeling of your gentle affection laid upon him solidified everything—you made sense. He wanted to know you. He needed to know you.

With that, you pulled back, just after trailing another light touch through his hair, before you stood back to your upright position. He said nothing. You didn’t either. No words were needed when your sentiment spoke a thousand things more than he could ever dream of saying. The two of you lingered for a moment, taking in the moment as you stroked a delicate thumb against his stubble-covered cheek, tracing his time-weathered features. He leaned into your touch, ever-so-slightly.

Finally, you broke the spell of silence, your voice inching just above a whisper, “Get some rest, Arthur. You need it.”

With a final graze across his cheek, you retracted your hand and headed out of his tent, returning to the tables you were tending to, but his image stayed etched deep in your mind.

Arthur watched you retreat, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to shake the warmth that pooled in him at your kiss. His mind swirled with emotions he couldn’t quite put into words. He hadn’t felt like that in a long time; it was a feeling he thought he had lost forever, and he still questioned if he truly deserved it, even now. He replayed the fleeting moment in his mind, committing every detail to memory—the touch of your hand, the softness of your lips, the tenderness in your eyes.

With deliberate movements, mindful not to aggravate his injured shoulder, he settled flat on his back, lying down on the cot. His gaze fixed on the canvas ceiling above and his thoughts raced, consumed by you and what could be.

Gradually, sleep beckoned Arthur, tempting him with heavy eyelids and the gentle chorus of crickets chirping in the nearby woods. As the night wore on, the camp embraced a stillness that only the wilderness could offer, coaxing him into a deep sleep. In that stillness, your presence lingered, a gentle reminder that Arthur wasn’t alone; that you cared for him.

Just as he cared for you.

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coweyloaf · 2 months

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So, the pull has ended and the fics you picked were:

✨Characters reaction to finding out your a toe walker

And

⭐Roller skating with characters modern AU

For anyone wanting another Rdr2 character just keep in mind Im only writing mxm so please suggest male characters :))

Edit: I accidentally put Kieran down twice, ignore that, I'll add up the percentage for him when it's over

#rdr2 fic #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 x male reader #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 #red dead fandom #red dead #red dead redemption community #red dead redemption two #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #kieran duffy #javier escuella #dutch van der linde #sean macguire #lenny summers #hosea matthews #bill williamson #john marston

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emmcfrxst · 1 month

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the only heaven i’ll be sent to (is when i’m alone with you); arthur morgan x reader

word count: 2K

warnings: smut!, afab!reader, religious themes (kinda. a bitch loves blasphemy<3), oral (f!receiving), body worship (arthur worships the ground you walk on), multiple orgasms (again, f!receiving), expressively asking for consent because that’s sexy! also yes the title is a hozier reference! feedback is appreciated as always <333

!!!!!MINORS DNI!!!!!

The wind blows softly over the half-closed lapels of the tent you and Arthur had set up somewhere around Dewberry Creek, your old, rusted lantern creaking as it sways with the night breeze. The flickering light does not seem to bother your companion, however, as he flattens his tongue over the seam of your cunt, moaning greedily into you. Arthur’s eyes flutter closed in ecstasy as your fingers tangle in his hair, giving the honey brown strands a sharp tug when he delivers a particularly hard suck to your pulsing clit. Your legs close around his head instinctively, trapping him between your thighs, tense muscles flexing against the sides of his face. A soft, breathy apology leaves your swollen lips, the pressure disappearing soon after as your lover pins your body down with calloused hands, brushing off your apology with a chuckle against your skin. You do not have anything to apologize for; Arthur Morgan, a man who has escaped death more than once, would gladly let himself be smothered by your cunt if it came to it. What a way to go that would be, he thinks. The closest to heaven’s gates he will ever get. And although Arthur isn’t a man of religion, he is more than willing to spend every day and every night praying at the altar that is your body, worshipping every inch of you with his eyes, his lips, his hands. Every kiss, every mark you leave on his skin is a holy reminder of the love shared between the two of you; of the passionate nights where Arthur can forget all about his sins and fully allow himself to be bathed in the sacred light of your affections.

“There you go, beautiful. Come back to me.” he coos at you, pushing hair out of your teary eyes, a tender grin on his face. His thumb gently runs under your eyes, wiping away the moisture there as you come back to your senses, focusing on his form above you. The sight of him is like a punch to the gut; blue irises swallowed up by fully dilated pupils, lips swollen and shining with the evidence of your previous orgasms, his beard is soaked through and his breathing ragged. You let your eyes wander down to where his bulge is straining against his union suit, biting your lip. The effect is immediate— his cock twitches under your sultry gaze, a soft groan leaving your lover’s throat.

“Stop lookin’ at me like that.” Arthur warns lowly, calloused hands running over the bare skin of your thigh. You giggle, lifting yourself up to brush your lips against his, your hand running down his chest, feeling his muscles flex under your touch.

“Like what?” You ask innocently, the teasing curve of your smile betraying your oblivious act. Arthur glares at you playfully, hand coming down to squeeze your inner thigh.

“Like ye wanna do real bad things t’me.” He mutters, voice raspier than usual, dripping with arousal. Suppressing a grin, you sit up, letting your hands slide all the way down to cup him through his clothes, thumb gently pressing against the wet spot on his underwear. A sick sort of satisfaction fills you at Arthur’s reaction —pretty blue eyes fluttering closed, his lips part in a strangled moan, hips jutting forward, seeking more pressure. You allow him a few moments to bask in your touch, swirling your thumb around his tip through the fabric and cupping his balls, before taking your hands off of him, leaving him breathing heavily.

“Maybe I do wanna do real bad things to you, Mr Morgan.” you whisper against his neck, leaving open mouthed kisses over his pulse point. A satisfied little giggle leaves you when you hear him cursing under his breath, hips bucking upwards of their own volition. Your victory is short lived, however, as your lover pinches your clit in retaliation, making you cry out. Satisfied, a smug grin on his face, he finally bares himself to you, making your breath hitch. It isn’t the first time you see Arthur in all of his glory —far from it, really, but the sight of how strong, how capable he is always manages to steal the breath right from your lungs. Freckles adorn the robust planes of his shoulders, ascending all the way across the broadness of a back toned from years of hard work; a petite waist and powerful hips curve out into muscled thighs and chiseled calves— Arthur Morgan is truly a sight to behold. He flushes under your heated stare but says nothing —how wise of him, you think, for he knows by now that you would never allow him to look down on himself, not even under the pretense of a joke. You deserve better than the way you treat yourself, you’d told him a million times. And you’ll spend the rest of your life proving it— that he’s worth it, be it through words, comfort, actions or through the passionate entangling of your bodies and souls. Because sex is more than just that to the two of you; it is a way of communicating the love and the needs you have for one another— Arthur, so painstakingly touch starved before you came along, now revels in the physical familiarity you two share. From fleeting touches to lingering kisses, he simply cannot seem to get enough of you; he does not believe the longing in his heart could ever be quelled completely.

Trembling gasps leave the two of you as Arthur slides his cock between your folds, coating himself in your slick. Jolts of pleasure thrum through your body every time his tip bumps against your swollen clit, your soft cries of pleasure causing Arthur’s cock to twitch.

“Sweetheart, if you keep makin’ all them pretty noises it’s gonna be over b’fore it even starts.” His accent is thick and his voice is shaky, excited little tremors running through his body at your state of undoing —all because of him. He’s made a real mess out of the two of you; drenched, sweaty and needy — thick strips of your wetness clinging to Arthur’s lower abdomen, precum pearling over the tip of his cock and gliding down his length; yes, your lover is more than willing to drown himself in your shared desire, to indulge in the carnality of your bound. Wrapping a hand around himself, he groans behind clenched teeth, sensitive to the touch, fingers quickly getting wet from how thoroughly turned on he is. He, however, remains unashamed, having accepted long ago that he will never be in control when it comes to you —he has never felt so connected with another human being, be it physically, psychologically, mentally or emotionally and he no longer bothers trying to hide the way you make him feel.

Understood. Respected. Appreciated. Loved. Alive. He’d never felt so many emotions prior to meeting you. Had never felt so alive; had never wanted to keep going as much as he has since you walked into his life. You make it worth it.

Letting his lips brush along your brow line, Arthur curls the fingers of his free hand around one of your thighs, spreading you open for him.

“Ye still good? D’ye want me to stop?” He asks, blue eyes roaming over your bare form with tenderness, trying to assess the situation. Even with you soft, pliant and soaked underneath him, Arthur Morgan would never dare to make assumptions about your desires, would never be so single-minded as to claim you without expressed consent from your part. He needs to know you want this as much as he does, wants this to be good for you— he thrives on your pleasure and your pleasure alone; can only feel good if you are. It is one of the many reasons why you love him so deeply, but in your lusting daze, you find yourself too strung up to fully appreciate it.

“Arthur Morgan, if you stop now m’gonna kick your sorry ass—oh!” Your voice breaks off into a pitiful little whimper when his cock teases your entrance, a low, rumbling laugh leaving him.

“As you wish, m’lady.” He allows himself to be playful for a few moments longer, basking in the frustrated little furrow of your brows and your pouting lips before pushing inside in one smooth glide, aided by your shared arousal. Arthur curses under his breath as your cunt flutters around him, trying to adjust to his girth. The blunt ends of your nails leave crescent marks onto the broadness of his shoulders and Arthur clenches his jaw, doing his best to stay still and allow you a moment of reprieve from the sensations that overtake your body. Busying himself with leaving marks onto your skin, he soothes the spots where his teeth have dug into, lips moving feom your neck to your chest to take a nipple into his mouth. The loud, broken mewl you let out at the action makes him shiver, goosebumps spreading all over his skin at the sound, but he continues to stay still, waiting for you to give him the permission to go on. It’s only when your legs wrap around his waist that he does finally let himself move, pulling himself almost all the way out before sliding back in with a quick snap of his hips. Another cry leaves your lips at the action, although this time sounding strangled, your cunt clenching around your lover’s cock at the delicious friction he provides you with. Your foot presses into the meat of his ass, encouraging him to go faster, deeper— a silent demand he is quick to indulge in. A series of loud, wet noises begin resounding around the two of you, only motivating Arthur on to thrust harder; your back arching up into him when he starts battering that one spot inside of you, rough fingers coming down to rub circles onto your clit. The moans pour freely from your mouth and into his as he kisses you, tongues tangling together in a messy, sloppy fight for dominance. You’re vaguely aware of the spit trickling down your chin but are far too gone to care; the coil in your stomach getting tighter and tighter with every powerful snap of Arthur’s hips into yours. Already sensitive from your previous orgasms, you rake your nails down his back, trying to warn your lover of your impending climax. Alas, gargling moans are the only thing you can manage before you finally snap; vision going white, body going rigid under his, you repeat his name like a prayer as waves after waves of pleasure wash over you. Arthur isn’t far behind you, spurred on by your own release, a long, incredibly deep moan rumbling through his chest before he pulls out of you, sticky cum splattering across your stomach. Coming down from your high, you tuck a few strands of hair behind Arthur’s ears, fingers lingering on his face lovingly. He leans into your touch immediately, turning his head to press a gentle kiss into your palm, his body trembling with the aftermath of his own orgasm.

“Was…” He clears his throat, rolling off of you and pulling you along to rest on his chest. “Was that good f’r ya?” The gravelly tone of his voice cannot conceal the genuineness of his question, his fingers running down the length of your spine. It makes you smile— he makes you smile, your sweet cowboy. Shifting to look at him, you kiss him right over his heart, fondness warming your features.

“It was. It always is, with you. I love you.” And despite it not being the first time you utter those words— far from it, really— emotion still takes over Arthur’s heart and features, eyes shining with a sheen of tears.

Love. You love him.

No, Arthur Morgan may not be a religious man, and he remains unconvinced of God’s existence, but he does know one thing; you are his little piece of heaven on Earth.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan fic #rdr2 fic #rdr2 smut #rdr2 imagine #arthur morgan imagine #red dead redemption 2 fic #red dead redemption 2 smut #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2

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lordofthecherubs · 2 months

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Hello Euphoria [Part 1]

“Knew it was too strong for your liking.”

“For my liking? I looove this stuff, Arthur.” You slurred, pointing to the drink in your hand for emphasis.

“Love is a strong word, cowpoke.” He offhandedly said.

“Strong feeling, too.”

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x F!Reader

Warnings/Tags: 18+, MDNI. Eventual Smut. Slight slow burn. Reader is part of the gang already. Drunkness. Horseshoe Overlook Chapter. Reader is a lightweight.

The summer this season was particularly grueling. As the sound of birds twittering overhead remained the same as they always were, everyone in the camp seemed to be barely making it day by day without turning into a melted puddle in the ground. Even Charles, stoic and resilient as he was, seemed to be letting the heat get the best of him; nearly planting Micah into the dirt ground after he had made one of his insensitive comments. Tensions were high.

In the late 1800s, there were scarce few ways to find relief from the heat and cool down. Modern luxuries of air conditioning or plug-in fans were not of access. You could swim in a lake, or buy yourself a small handheld fan; which seemed to be an idea Mary-Beth was keen on, holding the piece of plastic close to her face while attempting to still appear presentable. She was a nice young girl. She still had that going for her.

However, there were others who didn’t care to remain modest. Sean had taken to waltzing around camp in nothing but his drawers, which was more unpleasant to see than surprising— if you were anyone but Karen. John seemed to think this was a good idea, because he soon was seen in the same attire, or rather lack thereof. Abigail was not as thrilled with the sight as Karen was.

“John Marston!” She shouted. “Get yourself decent before folks start thinkin’ you’re a drunkard!”

You laughed at the sight, pulling pieces of hair away from where they’d stuck to your neck with sweat. The two of them weren’t exactly the perfect couple, but you could tell there was love there. If your judgement of love was educated enough.

Your gaze turned to another area of the camp.

Arthur sat at the base of a tree, head leaned down, and arm resting above his bent knee. You rolled your eyes at his ability to look how he did even given the harsh circumstances of the weather. The cowboy would never agree with you, but he was very easy on the eyes. So easy, in fact, sometimes you stared at him with such intensity it was like you were preparing to hunt him for sport. Not a bad idea.

Your daydream doesn’t last long. Not when Dutch, the gangs leader, voices his opinions about the current situation loud enough for everyone to hear.

“We are better off laying down and dying in the middle of Valentine than staying here and looking miserable all day!”

For once, you agreed with him. Dutch was a man of many thoughts and opinions, ones it seemed he couldn’t bear with keeping locked inside his head for long. Which is why, he continued his remarks.

“Arthur, Lenny, Micah, John—“

For the first time today, Dutch caught a look of what John’s best idea of cooling down was. The two shared a look for a moment until Dutch shook his head, waving his hand in the direction of the long-haired cowboy. Then, the gang’s leader looked in your direction, a smile filling his face as he walked over to where you were.

“Well now, I believe it would be in our interest to have a lady on this trip.”

“A trip? In this? You really are losin’ it, Dutch.” A voice commented, the sound of gravel crunching signaling to you that someone was heading your direction.

Arthur looked at Dutch with a hint of fatigue in his eyes, having been woken up from his nap by another one of Dutch’s antics. Lenny and Micah soon followed behind him, and the once empty table you occupied was now surrounded.

“Listen, I think it would be best if a few of us went down to some of the cities.” Dutch explained, looking between different members of the small group he created. “You two—“ He gestured to Micah and Lenny, “See if you can find some information about O’Driscoll’s in Strawberry, maybe steal us some supplies. And you two,” He pointed at you and Arthur, but paused for a moment after reviewing the exhausted look on both of your faces.

While Dutch wasn’t a soft man, he wasn’t evil. He cared about every person in the gang like they were his family. And, in a way, they really were his family, or the closest he’d ever get to one.

The dark-haired man opened his mouth to speak again. “You two, go to the saloon in Valentine. See what you can find out there.”

“What? That’s it?” Micah scoffed, stepping closer to Dutch. “We gotta go robbin’ and chattin’ while these two get to have a bar date?”

You tried to tell yourself the heat that crept up the back of your neck was not because of the inclination that Arthur and you were going on a date, but because you might’ve been getting a sunburn. Yeah, that was it. Looking upwards from where you sat, Arthur’s jaw visibly clenched. It could be unrelated. Maybe he had a bad dream during his nap?

Dutch began walking away to his tent, ignoring Micah’s complaints. “Just find something useful to do, would you?” A hint of annoyance in his tone.

In an attempt to hide his embarrassment, Micah shrugged his shoulders back, feigning nonchalance. “So, it’s you and me kid, huh? Hope you’re ready for the ride of your life!”

Stepping off into another direction, you gave Lenny a sympathetic look before he followed behind Micah, no hints at all in his step that he was happy to be sent on this mission. Who would be?

“Can’t help but feel bad for him.” Arthur said, watching the duo ride off on their horses in the direction of Strawberry.

You laughed, shaking your head. “It was him or us. And, Dutch is smart enough to know sending you off alone with Micah is a recipe for disaster.”

“Disaster?” The cowboy parroted, smiling down at you. “What kind of disaster, cowpoke?” His eyes seemed to pierce right through your own, possibly even right into your brain, where your thoughts were aimlessly spinning around, trying to stay focused on the fact that you were in the middle of a conversation.

You cleared your throat and broke eye contact, opting instead to ease yourself up from where you sat instead of sitting and sharing eye contact any longer. “The kind of disaster where one of you gets killed,” You quickly said, pushing away from the wooden table. “Preferably, Micah.”

This made Arthur laugh heartily while he followed you to where both of your horses were hitched. The sound of his voice was enough to make you smile softly to yourself, patting the animal on its side while readying your saddle. Almost in sync, the two of you mounted them, slowly exiting the camp while riding next to each other. You wanted to look at him, but instead you focused your attention on the road ahead of you, hands clasping tightly onto the reigns.

***

The trip to Valentine was as quiet as it was short. You and Arthur hadn’t shared many words to each other, but you assumed that was because he was still tired, being woken up from a nap was never fun. You almost felt bad that Dutch had sent the both of you on this mission. You’re sure you’re not the only one to have noticed, but Dutch really liked to send Arthur off on missions that could be done by anyone else. The cowboy worked hard, if not the hardest out of everyone in the camp. But, all things considered, you weren’t one to complain about having such pleasant company.

Tying your horses up at the front of the saloon, Arthur walked up the steps, leaning against the front of the building as he waited for you to follow suit. He watched as you removed a gun you had stowed on your horse and placed it in your holster, surprise bubbling in his stomach. Most of the women in the gang didn’t have guns. And while he wasn’t opposed to it, he wondered if there was more to you than you let on.

You were a fighter, he knew that well enough from how you never shied away from telling Micah off when he disgustingly flirted with you, even having drawn a knife one time when you were slightly intoxicated. You had no real intentions of using said knife, but the blond man needed to be shut up one way or another. That same occurrence was when Arthur had learned you weren’t the best at handling your alcohol. A lightweight, the term he commonly heard being used.

The cowboy, still leaning against a wall by the entrance of the saloon, had a keen eye for things when it came to you. He wasn’t sure of how obvious it was, but he didn’t miss the way he’d sometimes catch you staring his direction when you were sure he couldn’t see you. The thought made him smile to himself, hands resting on his belt as he waited for you to catch up with him.

“All ready?” You asked, admiring the way stray pieces of hair stuck to Arthur’s forehead due to perspiration. He nodded, moving himself off the wall to push the saloon doors open, holding them for you to walk inside.

With a smile towards the cowboy in thanks, you followed him to the bar. The table in front of you wasn’t the tallest, but it was hard not to notice the way Arthur basically towered over it. Looking away before you were either caught staring, or consumed in your thoughts, you began to wonder why Dutch sent the two of you on this “mission”. Before you could get whisked away in your head with that topic, Arthur spoke up again.

“Got a preferred drink?” He asked, elbows leant against the wooden platform in front of you.

“Even if I did, I doubt they’d have it in a place like this,” You said, looking upwards at the bartender in front of you. Your eyes widened, not realizing the owner would be standing right in front of you. “Oh— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” You trailed off, a feeble attempt at an apology, and heard Arthur bite back a laugh beside you. You kicked him beneath the bar.

“Don’t you worry, miss. I’ve been to enough saloons to know this one ain’t all that pretty.” The bartender said, smiling genuinely. “And,” He paused, wiping down the wooden expanse in front of him with an old rag, “I don’t actually own the place, I just work here.” The man in front of you winked with a laugh, standing up straight to formally address the you and Arthur.

Arthur, smiling and obviously very entertained by the whole interaction, sighed out contently before speaking up. “I’ll have a whiskey, and for the lady…” He looked down at you, examining your face for a quick moment. “Brandy.”

The bartender nodded, turning around to fill up some glasses with your drinks.

“What’s brandy?”

Arthur laughed again. He seemed to be in a better mood now, thankfully. “Think it comes from a fruit, if I remember right. Not much of a drinker, are you?”

You shook your head silently, looking down at your hands. As much as you wanted to be able to drink like the rest of the gang, you knew all too well that you and alcohol did not mix well. Loose lips, unsteady feet, tiredness, and giggles were your common reactions. All of which are far too embarrassing to display in front of Arthur, someone you wanted to think highly of you. Yet, here you were, thanking the bartender for the drink as it was handed to you. For a moment, you examined the glass in your hand with an eyebrow raised.

“Scared?” Arthur teased, turning towards you with his own glass gripped between his fingers.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes playfully. “Of a drink? I think I’ll be fine, cowboy.”

Were you a bad liar? Or did Arthur always have a look of suspicion in his eyes whenever you spoke to him? Despite whether or not he truly believed your words, he raised his drink towards you, cheersing it with yours, the sound of the glass clinking filling the space as you both took your sips.

Being the man that he was, Arthur didn’t flinch at the bitter taste whiskey left on his tongue, or the way it burned down his throat. Especially not when he wanted to see the way you reacted when your drink did the same to you.

Pulling the glass to your lips, you were met with the initial taste of something slightly fruity. The flavor wasn’t too bad, compared to any other alcoholic beverages you’d had before. Then, as the liquid traveled down your throat, a sweltering feeling overcame you. With great effort, you managed you swallow it, despite your brain's efforts to try and get you to spit it back out. The overall feeling was intense enough to make your eyes water, looking up at Arthur in front of you.

The cowboys face read a mix between surprise and concern. Clearly, whatever reaction you just had was not the usual. You grew embarrassed, cheeks turning a shade of crimson.

“Should we get you somethin’ different—“

“No!” You almost immediately said, clearing your throat. “No, this is good. I like it.” You half-lied, reaching for the drink again.

Arthur seemed to be shocked by this response, because he tilted his head to the side slightly. “Really? You like it?”

You nodded, taking another sip and willing yourself not to have the same reaction as before.

The cowboy carefully watched your face as you drank, taking note of the way your eyes watered again after you pulled to drink away from your lips. He wondered why you were lying to him about something like this. It wasn’t a bad thing to not be able to stand strong drinks, especially if you were someone who didn’t usually drink in the first place. Momentarily, he remembered the first time he’d been offered a drink by Dutch. He was about fourteen, and as soon as the liquid met his tongue, he spat it back out onto the ground, gagging dramatically. Compared to the way he was casually drinking the whiskey in his hand, that memory was laughable.

“Can I try yours?”

Arthur was shook from his memories by your voice, glancing down at his drink to your face with a nod. Handing the drink over, he spoke up to try and warn you. “Just be careful. This is a lot stronger than—“

Before he could finish speaking, you quickly pulled the glass to your lips, eyes closed tightly as you gulped the entire drink down. Arthurs jaw fell slack at the scene before him, looking around to see if this had been some kind of joke. Upon surveying his surroundings, he noticed the cup that had once been full of the brandy he ordered you was now empty. You placed his now matching glass beside it, wiping a hand over your mouth.

“S-sorry, I drank all yours…” You sheepishly said, looking up at Arthur. “I’ll get you another, ‘kay?”

Was it possible for someone to fall under the influence that fast? Or had he been daydreaming about his childhood for too long? Whatever the answer was, his feeling of shock lingered as you pulled two large mugs of whiskey towards the both of you. “Maybe we’ve had enough for today.” Arthur said, voice laced with concern for where this would go if you got any more liquor in your system.

“Let’s find somewhere else to sit, it’s too loud here.” And with that, you were off, both drinks clutched in your fists as you wobbled to find a quieter place to sit.

The cowboy had no choice but to follow you, worried for your wellbeing. Maybe it was his fault, getting you started on brandy of all things. But in his defense, he thought it would put you off from drinking altogether, not send you into a spiteful frenzy to prove you could drink the same way that he did. Arthur stayed close behind you as you made your way outside, using your weight to push the back door open. Luckily for you, there was a small table with two chairs on the back patio, looking almost as if they had been waiting for you and Arthur to come and use them.

“Perfect!” You exclaimed, carelessly plopping yourself down into one of the wooden chairs, placing Arthur’s drink on the table and bringing yours to your lips.

The outlaw carefully sat down across from you, reaching for his drink at a more relaxed speed than your own. Carefully, he eyed you. You were definitely drunk, there was no denying that, but he had underestimated just how quickly that could happen to you. This was a fault of his memory, because only now was it reminding him of the time when you got woozy from one beer.

“You know, after a while, it doesn’t even burn anymore.” You laughed, turning your head in the mans direction.

“So it did burn you,” Arthur couldn’t help but smile. “Knew it was too strong for your liking.”

“For my liking? I looove this stuff, Arthur.” You slurred, pointing to the drink in your hand for emphasis. Now, you turned your entire body towards him, almost leaning completely over the table in his direction. This action caused a sleeve of your shirt to slip off, revealing a soft shoulder to Arthur’s eyes, making him gulp down his drink with a new intensity.

“Love is a strong word, cowpoke.” He offhandedly said. Unlike many of the other women in the gang, besides Sadie, you tended to dress less traditionally. Your wardrobe consisted of different pairs of worn in pants, and some button up shirts that happened to fit you sometimes, while others did not. Only so often did Arthur ever witness you in something like a dress. And presently, the shirt you wore was probably a size or two too big. Not a fault of your own, though. It was rare to find clothes made for working in diverse sizes, more so ones that fit women.

Within his thoughts, he reached forward to ease your shirt back onto where it belonged, willing his hand to not linger on the spot longer than it needed to.

“Strong feeling, too.”

Arthur had almost forgotten what he’d said to make you respond with that, but the look in your eyes brought the same spoken of feeling to burn in his chest. Still leaning over the table, eyes trained on the cowboy in front of you, your pupils were blown wide and your cheeks were flushed.

It was nearing dusk, crickets began chirping ambiently, and the air was starting to cool down from its prior harshness.

“We best start heading back.” Arthur quietly said, all too aware of the way you were silently staring at him. It’s not as if he was opposed to you being this close to him, in fact, it was killing him inside to not reach over and pull you across the table into his lap, where he could finally get his hands on you. But you were drunk. He wasn’t going to take advantage of you like that.

You hummed in response, eyes lowering from his to now look at his lips, coated with the whiskey he had been nursing all this time. They were entrancing, really. Everything about Arthur was. The way he carried himself. His voice. His arms. His calloused hands. The way he always seemed to look out for you. How could you not feel some kind of way about him?

The sound of your name coming from his mouth made you focus up, albeit you found it hard to keep your attention on one thing.

“You alright?”

“Y-yeah… just thinking…’s all.”

If you weren’t so drunk you’d be embarrassed of the way you were speaking.

“Thinkin’, huh? What about?” Arthur challenged.

You pulled yourself back into your seat, the final drops of your drink finding its way down your throat before you spoke again.

“‘m not sure I can tell you.” You mumbled, leaning your head back against the wooden chair.

At this, Arthur felt a bit defeated. He wasn’t going to make you talk if you weren’t comfortable with it. If there was something you were withholding from telling him, he was sure there was a good reason.

“Well, looks like our time here is up.”

As the cowboy began standing up from his seat, he felt a force grip his wrist, making him instinctively turn on his heels. What he was met with shook him to his core.

Eyes glazed over, lip pouted outwards, hair a beautiful mess, you reached for Arthur.

“What’s goin’ on—“

“Please, Arthur.”

He was going to pass out. Your voice, defeated and pitiful, spoke his name in a way he’d never forget. Regaining his composure, Arthur spoke up again.

“Please what?”

Cheeks flushing an even darker red, you looked down at his wrist, turning it in your hand from where you had grasped onto it. For a second, there was no apparent reason for what you were doing.

But then, calloused palms met soft cheeks.

You had pulled Arthurs hand to caress your face, leaning into it with a soft smile.

“‘thur... I don’t wanna go back to the camp…”

Confused, but compliant, his brows furrowed on his face. “How come?”

You nuzzled your face against his hand for a moment before responding. “Not enough room on my bedroll for both of us…”

Arthur hoped the way his whole body stiffened wasn’t noticeable. How could you say something like that to him? He was going to lose his mind. Right here, on the back patio of Valentine’s saloon. He started thinking of ways to solve this problem. At this rate, getting back to camp on the horses without a fuss from you wouldn’t be possible… There was a hotel not too far of a walk from here, maybe that would work? Only, he’d have to get one with two beds. You weren’t in any condition to be consenting to share a bed with another person, even if your previous statement said otherwise.

“Can you walk?”

Removing your face from his hand, you used the table as leverage to stand up again. However, walking proved to be a difficulty, akin to a baby deer taking its first steps. Yeah, this wouldn’t work.

“Okay, I’m gonna pick you up. Is that alright?” Arthur said, hovering his arms around your shoulders momentarily.

Immediately, you nodded, leaning into his touch as he carried you bridal style to your next location. Wherever it was, you didn’t care as long as you were in his arms.

The cowboy made quick work of the situation, careful of the mud that laid the town of Valentine as he made his way to the hotel. He was lucky it was still open at this hour, pushing the door open to be greeted by the owner.

“Well howdy, you two! Looking for a room?”

“Yes, a two bed, please.” Arthur said, trying not to sound too strained. It wasn’t that he was having trouble holding you, no, that was far from the problem. It was the way you buried your face into his chest that caused his heart to race. He hoped you didn’t notice.

“Two bed?” The man behind the counter said, raising a brow at the two of you. “You sure? I got plenty of other—“

“Yes! Just a two bed, please.”

Arthur was never more thankful to be a threatening man in his life than right now, it seemed, because the tone of his voice was enough to send the man on his way to find keys to a room.

“Up the stairs to the left, mister.”

And with that, Arthur made his way in the direction he had been told, carefully unlocking the door with you still in his arms. None of this felt real, if he was honest with himself. One second, he was talking to you inside the saloon; and the next he was carrying you to a room to put you to bed. He paused to look down at you, your eyes closed as you quietly breathed. There weren’t many things that could make the heart of a man like him soft, but you were definitely one of them.

As Arthur entered the room, he took note of the two beds that were inside of it. While they were on the smaller side, there was no doubt they were probably much better than the makeshift beds the gang had back at the camp. Slowly, he pulled back the covers of the bed and placed you in the one furthest away from the door, his mind considering the situation where an emergency might happen, even amongst its slight buzzing from the whiskey.

When he began to walk away to get into his own bed, he felt the same grip on his wrist from before. Only this time, he knew there was no threat. Slowly, he turned around, looking down at where you laid.

“Please… sleep with me. I don’t wanna be alone.”

If his heart hadn’t softened entirely from the sight of you dozing in his arms, it was melted right out of his chest now.

Opening his mouth to give you an excuse as to why he shouldn’t, you cut him off.

“If you don’t, ‘m just gonna get into yours later.” A slight sleepy giggle in your voice.

Who was he to deny you right now?

Finally, he gave in, sighing quietly before sitting himself down on the bed. Maybe if he slept as stiffly as he did at camp, you wouldn’t want to lay so close to him. It wasn’t that he didn’t want you near him, at this point, he craved you near him. But he couldn’t be entirely sure that this is what sober you would’ve wanted. So, as he laid down on the small bed, likely intended for one person, he was surprised to see you keep your distance initially.

But, it was short-lived. Once Arthur had completely settled into the bed, you grabbed onto his arm, hugging it close to yourself.

The cowboy squeezed his eyes shut, not in an attempt to sleep, but rather to keep himself contained.

“Night, Arthur…”

He could die right now.

He’d be happy.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fic #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 fic #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 community #rdr2 smut

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twola · 1 year

Text

Seven Deadly Sins - X [Finale]

PAIRING: low to mid honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

Because if one thing is true, it is that Arthur Morgan is a sinner. Pure, organic, non-GMO smut. Complete.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Low to Medium Honor Arthur (and all that entails)

Redemption: the action of saving or being saved from sin, error, or evil.

This is it, y’all! Thanks for coming along for the ride. Love hearing feedback.

taglist: @how-the-heck-would-i-know

➵ AO3 Link

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Even as the sun set in the distance, the air was hot but dry. None of the sweltering humidity of Lemoyne, nor even the briskness of the northern reaches of New Hanover. No, this land was a land of sun-bleached sandstone and dusty brown earth. Of desert scrub and towering cactus, of coyotes and pronghorn and rattlesnakes.

Fitting, it seems, this inhospitable place is where he landed, the snake that he is.

Arthur Morgan heaves a bale of hay over his shoulder, walking it along the parched ground to an animal pen, where a few ewes linger in the shade of the passing shadows. Even they knew to wait until evening to start moving around - something he will never get through his thick head. Not when there was work to be done.

He should count himself lucky, he supposes.

No, he doesn’t suppose. He knows.

He’s very lucky.

Arthur places the bale within the wooden fence, turning back toward the sunset and clearing his throat. The wet cough that had so plagued him is almost gone - the sickness that had left him nearly dead passing with each day.

He is lucky - and he certainly doesn’t deserve it, not with the life he’s lived. He should have been dead on a mountainside in Roanoke, drowning in his own blood, left by Micah and Dutch after the gang fell apart.

But that didn’t happen.

Somehow, someway, he ended up here, in New Austin, under the hot desert sun - ironic considering that is what the doctor in Saint Denis told him to do - get somewhere warm and dry. Convalescence in an abandoned cabin in Cholla Springs - weeks and weeks of rest before he was able to even leave the bed, much less work on what was slowly becoming a homestead.

He slowly plods back toward the cabin, where amongst the pink-purple light of the dusk settling in, an oil lamp shines through the window. He adjusts his hat on his head, wiping the dust from the back of his neck, and enters the door, closing it behind himself.

“You need to watch how hard you’re pushing yourself, Arthur.”

Arthur looks up to find you scrubbing at dishes in the sink. Your hair is messily tied into a bun on the top of your head, and you wear a light cotton dress, blue like the color of his work shirt. He loves that color on you.

“Ain’t that the pot callin’ the kettle black.”

“I am fine. Stop worrying your pretty little head off.”

He frowns, taking his hat from his head and placing it on the table.

“My head definitely ain’t pretty or little.”

He stops behind you, leaning over you to place a kiss on your cheek. His large hands find your hips and slowly inch forward, lightly pressing on the skin beneath your dress.

“Let’s hope this one is.” You laugh, leaning back against his frame, as Arthur’s hands continue their forward journey, finally resting on your stomach.

Your very swollen stomach.

“Let’s hope they look like you ‘nstead of having my ugly mug.”

You roll your eyes, swatting playfully at one of his hands, “Hush, you. I don’t know who you’re talkin’ about with ugly mugs. All I see is my handsome cowboy.”

Arthur chuckles, spinning you around.

“How about I get the rest of this and you go lay down.”

Arthur shoos you off from your cleaning as the sun fully sets, telling you that he would finish and for you to get off your feet. You sigh, but agree to his request, rubbing at your back as you slowly walk toward the bedroom. He finishes cleaning up after dinner and puts out the oil lamp in the kitchen, slowly closing the door to your bedroom after he steps in. He takes you in, laying on the spacious bed in a chemise, absentmindedly stroking at your stomach while you look out the window into the night.

He marvels at the sight. Months ago, he held you in his small cot in Roanoke, weeping at the death sentence you both had been given - and now here you are, blooming in the dry desert on the other side of tuberculosis, somehow, someway, surviving the illness and being given a second chance.

And then your stomach slowly began to swell - it was always a possibility, but he never thought this would actually happen.

“Feelin’ alright?” Arthur asks as he sits by the side of the bed, pulling his boots off and placing them on the floor.

You don’t answer, propping your head up on your elbow, your other hand circling your belly as you lay on your side.

Arthur looks over his shoulder, “Mm?”

You nod, reaching for him as you remove your hand from your belly. You grasp at the back of his shirt, pulling at him, “C’monnnn.”

Arthur turns completely around, facing you. He snorts with a knowing grin on his face. “I reckon you’re feelin’ mighty fine, my lady.”

“Arthur-” You narrow your eyes in annoyance before he laughs, shucking his shirt from his body and dropping it to the floor.

Laying on the bed next to you, he smirks as your eyes rake over his broad chest - he’s not looking nearly so gaunt these days, emerging stronger and stronger from his sickness.

He reaches for the buttons of his pants, watching your eyes flit down to his hips.

“See somethin’ y’like?” He teases, pressing one of the buttons of his pants through its eyelet.

“I swear, you’re a no good-”

He leans over and catches your lips in a bruising kiss. You gasp into his mouth, hands flying up to his chest.

Arthur’s large hand cups a swollen breast through your chemise, and you moan into his mouth as he gently squeezes.

“Here, turn over, I’ve got you.” He whispers into your mouth, his hand moving to your ribcage. He gently turns you over to face away from him, pulling up your chemise to bare your skin to him.

Arthur shimmies his pants down his hips, kicking his jeans off before rolling over to press his front against your back. You moan as you feel the long, hard line of him press up against your rear, and a low rumble echoes out from his chest as his arm rounds your belly, tracing down your skin to the apex of your thighs.

You gasp as he slides his middle finger against your core, groaning into your ear when he finds you wet.

“Christ,” he mutters, rubbing gently at the opening of your cunt, making you roll your hips urgently, whining as he refuses to press inside.

“P-please, oh god, please just-”

Your begging halts immediately as he tilts your hips and presses the blunt head of his cock into your core, sliding into your warmth slowly, gently, carefully.

“Look at you,” he drawls as he bottoms out, his hips pressed fully against your rear, and his hand spreads out over your belly, “Heavy with my child and you still can’t get enough.”

You can do nothing but whine as he pulls back and slowly pushes forward again. He presses his face against the curve of your neck, sucking at the skin gently.

The two of you move against each other in a cacophony of sound - skin meeting skin, the wet sounds of bodies tessellating, gasping, and moaning and pleasure.

You press your hips back at him with a gasp, body clenching around him, leading only moments later to him throwing his arm over your belly again, spreading his hand out over his child as he grunts, spilling his hot seed into your cunt.

He pants into your ear, satiated, as your breath slows, you place your hand over his as he gently, slowly circles your stomach.

“You’re gonna kill me one of these days.” Arthur laughs into your hair, rubbing at your belly as he softens inside you.

You smile, craning your head to make eye contact with him, “Least you’ll die an empty man.”

“Yer a minx, you hear that?”

Of course, it’s the middle of the night some weeks later when you push at his shoulder, jolting him awake.

“Arthur.”

“Mmph?” He groans, wiping his hand down his face for a moment before his eyes adjust to the dark room.

He focuses on you, leaning over the bed, rubbing your stomach expectantly.

“Shit, shit, are you-”

“My waters broke a little bit ago. I think we’ve still got some time.” You say calmly, sitting on the side of the bed.

Arthur rockets out of the bed, stumbling around the room as if he were drunk, finding his pants on the floor and forcing his legs through them over his union suit.

“Christ, why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I did wake you up, silly.” You deadpan, wincing slightly as a pain rolls through you.

“Damnit, damnit.” Arthur mutters to himself as he shoves his feet into his boots, “I’ll.. I’ll ride up to Armadillo and get the doctor. Y’just…” He trails off, looking at you sitting on the bed.

“I’ll stay right here. I’ll be fine, Arthur.”

He rolls out of the small house like a tornado, saddling his horse and riding through the New Austin desert at a speed he had not in months - the breakneck galloping days outrunning lawmen, those seemed to be behind him.

Ahead was something completely different.

He reaches Armadillo in record time, banging on the doctor’s door and nearly yanking the man out when he answers it. Arthur sits fuming as the doctor, an old bearded man, seems to take his time packing his bag and saddling his horse. After what seemed like forever, they were off again, riding hard for the cabin in the desert. Reaching it, Arthur barges through the door, the doctor following behind, looking somewhat bedraggled.

He finds you sitting in the rocking chair next to your bed, slowly rocking back and forth, hands framing your distended abdomen. You frown as you see Arthur’s frenzied state and the less-than-thrilled look on the doctor’s face.

“Oh - I’m sorry, I hope he wasn’t too difficult,” you say guiltily from the chair, hand over your swollen stomach. The doctor grumbles slightly, and you move to get out of the chair, wincing with difficulty before Arthur pulls you gently to your feet.

“How far apart are the pains?” The doctor asks matter of factly.

“A few minutes.” You grit your teeth slightly, letting a long breath loose after your comment.

“Alright. Let’s get you to bed.” The doctor turns around, pacing toward your bed, putting his bag down on the side table.

Arthur, for the life of him, cannot figure out why both you and the doctor are so calm. He helps you walk slowly over to the bed, and once you’ve reached it, he helps peel off the dress you shrugged on, leaving you only in a chemise as you lie down, breathing out heavily.

He looms over the bed, eyes darting between you and the doctor, who slowly unpacks instruments from his leather bag, placing them on the bedside table, each more terrifying in his eyes than the last.

“You know you aren’t helping.” You say crossly, clenching your teeth against another wave of pain.

Arthur gives you a withering expression before rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hands.

The doctor, completely unperturbed or surprised, simply snorts under his breath, “He’s a new father. They tend to be like this.”

You roll your eyes, about to retort something sarcastic, but all that escapes as you moan loudly in pain, your abdomen seizing up.

Without fanfare or any regard for some sort of modesty, the doctor flips the hem of your chemise up, over your waist, and pulls your legs apart, propping them on either side of him, your heels flat against the mattress.

“Alright there, looks like you’re ready. Miss?” The doctor says, turning back toward his bag and

You look up at Arthur expectantly, breathing in quickly through your nose to keep your mind off the pain.

He quickly moves to the side of the bed, falling to his knees and grasping your hand, which you take and immediately squeeze to get your way through the wave of constriction in your body.

Arthur looks down at you, trying to disguise the fear and trepidation in his eyes. Fear and trepidation that seem to compound when they are finally reflected back at him.

He leans over and places his lips on yours briefly, pulling back before sitting at the side of the bed.

“I’m here, sweetheart.”

You shut your eyes, breathing in slowly, trying to calm yourself down. You grasp his hand tightly before your eyes open again, and you nod at the doctor.

The doctor’s mouth presses into a line, “Alright, ma’am. Let’s get this baby born.”

If you were to ask Arthur, years from now, how long it was between the doctor making that comment and the high screech of a newborn cutting through the heavy air, he would have told you hours - hours, days maybe.

You, on the other hand, would laugh and say it was naught but a single hour before the doctor deposited the squalling newborn upon your breast, sticky with blood and the fluids of birth.

“A girl.”

The doctor’s words echo distantly in his head

But oh, that moment, that moment, as the doctor wiped at the child’s skin with clean linen, that Arthur gazed upon what you had created and the newborn takes a breath to stop her crying - her eyes open and Arthur sees his own reflected back at him…

“Oh… ” You whisper lightly, looking down at the baby, “Oh, she has your eyes, Arthur.”

You look back up at him, and the doctor at least has the sensibility to leave the confines of the bed, gathering up the dirty linens to deposit them on the floor.

The newborn wails against her mother’s skin, trying to find warmth as you pull the linen around her tighter, and Arthur is sure he’s never heard a sweeter sound in his nearly forty years of life.

The doctor returns, “We must finish the birth. If I may?”

Arthur watches, mesmerized, as the gruff older man gently removes the child, placing the baby on the bed next to you while picking up the cord that served as the last tie between your bodies.

He holds the pulsing white-blue cord taut, and with his other hand, he flicks the scalpel above the newborn’s stomach, severing the connection between the child and yourself. He blots at the blood that seeps from the stump of the cord before rewrapping the child in the linen blanket. He looks up to Arthur, who is still wide-eyed and incredulous.

“Here, take the child and step outside, I’ll finish the process with her.”

Arthur looks down at you and you nod, and he takes the bundle as the doctor gently lays the newborn in his arms. Her screaming has slowed, at the very least, into a whimper.

Arthur is shocked into stillness, in his broad arms is one of the smallest, most fragile things he’s ever held - he’s terrified and awestruck.

He never held Jack as a newborn. Hell, he never held Isaac when he was a newborn.

“Go on, I’ll be alright.” You whisper, moving to slowly sit up as the doctor moves to your side.

Arthur nods, trepidatious, taking careful steps from the bedroom into the main area of the cabin, the door behind him closing.

He sits down at the table, slowly, and gently so as not to disturb the baby, finally quieting down as he gently moves his arms back and forth.

What strange dream was this? Was it a dream? Would he wake up dying on a mountain somewhere in Roanoke, drowning in his own blood?

God only knows that’s what he deserved: not to be rescued and thrown into the back of a wagon, taking a long, slow journey west, into the dry and arid desert, where his failing lungs did not feel as heavy in his chest.

His thoughts fly from his head as the baby’s brow furrows, a high wail emanating from her, so much louder than he’d ever imagined.

No, he thought as he stood up, rocking his arms gently as he circled the small kitchen of the cabin, he would not dwell on the past and what has been.

All he knows is the future. All he needs is this. All he will bleed and fight and die for, it exists in this little cabin in New Austin.

The baby cries, her small arms punching upward in discontent.

Arthur also cries, humming some off-beat tune as he rocks his child gently, whispering promises into her ear as he circles the room.

Some months later…

“She go down alrigh’?”

You nod, closing the door to the baby’s room quietly, and latching the door behind you. It was only a few days ago that you had moved the bassinet from your bedroom into the other one, now that she was sleeping through the night better.

Arthur sits at the table, fiddling with a rifle cartridge, whittling at it with his large knife.

You raise an eyebrow as you sit down opposite of him. He glances up and smiles before continuing his work.

“Caught a coyote out by the henhouse the other day. Hadn’t made it in, but if I can shoot it and keep the pelt in good condition… Well, there’s two birds with one stone.”

“Ah.” You reply, interlacing your hands together.

He looks up again, his brow furrowing.

“What?” He asks, placing both the knife and the cartridge down, giving you his full attention.

“Wel, it’s uh-” you start, stumbling your way through your sentences, “It’s been… I mean, I’d like…”

“Darlin’. Stop your bellyachin’ and out with it.” Arthur says, the hint of a smirk on his face, his beard finally trimmed short after much complaining from you.

You blink, inhaling slowly. On your exhale, you breathe out a jumble of words so quickly that he doesn’t catch your meaning.

“Alrigh’. Come on now. What are you sayin’?”

You rub your eyes with the heels of your palm in exasperation.

“Christ, it shouldn’t be this hard.”

“Darlin’.”

He stoops down on one knee next to your chair, taking your hand from your lap and placing it between his own large ones.

“It’s just… I miss you.” You sigh.

“I’m right here, sweetheart.”

“No… it’s, I - ”

“You what?” He rubs his thumbs across your knuckles.

You sigh and squeeze his hand. “It’s been three months since she was born. I reckon I’m healed enough now to sleep with you again.”

He snorts, part of a smirk on his face, “Y’know you ain’t gotta do any of that to make me happy. I am perfectly fine wa-”

“But what about what I want?”

Arthur takes your hand and pulls it to his lips, kissing it gently.

“What do you want?”

“Arthur, I want you to take me into the bedroom and make love to me.”

He presses your knuckles to his lips again, “You think you’re ready? Healed?”

“Yes, Arthur, I know I’m ready, please-”

You yelp as he heaves you up into his arms as he stands to his full height. One arm below your knees, one behind your back, he carries you to your bedroom, softly nudging the door shut with the heel of his boot.

He makes his way across the room and gently deposits you on the bed, his hands moving to your feet, pulling your boots off before he sits on the edge of the bed to take his own boots off. He tosses them to the side of the bed, before turning back to you, placing a large, warm hand on your knee.

You sit up, placing your hand over his. Your eyes flit from his gaze down to his lips briefly before you lean further forward and catch him in a kiss. Your hands grasp at his shirt, pulling him closer to you, as he slides up the bed to lay out next to you.

You pull back, breathing heavily, and immediately start working at the buttons of his linen work shirt, as his hands move to the ties on your dress, feverish, as if you were teenagers falling into bed for the first time.

He’s stripped you and himself bare, laying you down in the bed before pressing his body against yours. You gasp as he slides his hand, big and warm, between your thighs, rubbing gently at the seam of your body before he slides two fingers inside you.

You mewl into his neck as he crooks his fingers in your cunt, your hands fisting the sheets beneath you, lest you dig scars into the poor man’s back again.

“Ar-Arthur… please-”

He lifts his head from the pillow, ceasing the nibbling on your earlobe.

“Yes, darlin’?” He rumbles, his low voice hoarse.

“Pl-please- I’m ready-” You gasp as he thrusts his fingers deeper.

“Think you should come for me, just to be sure.” He smirks into your mouth, pressing his tongue against the seam of your lips. A shift of his hand makes you gasp as his thumb presses on the small nub of your pleasure, slowly circling it.

You keen, turning your body into him, trying not to cry out too loudly as he works you through a rolling orgasm, clenching hard against his fingers. He grunts in approval into your mouth, slowly pulling his fingers out of your body.

“You tell me if anything hurts, you hear?” Arthur says, panting slightly as he climbs over you, pressing your legs apart as he presses his lips to your jaw.

You nod desperately, wrapping your legs around his hips and chasing his lips with your own. He settles against you, and you feel the blunt head of his cock press at your opening. He slides in, the stretch nearly painful after so long, and you gasp as he stills, halfway buried.

“No, no - I’m fine, just… be gentle.” You plead into his warm neck, your ankles crossing over his hips to not let him out.

“You tell me if you need me to stop,” Arthur whispers into your ear, a hint of exasperation in his voice.

“Plea-ohh-”

Your mouth goes slack as he presses forward, burying himself completely in your heat. He holds still, his arms bracketing your head as he lifts himself to his elbows.

“Y’okay?”

You nod, smiling, trying not to cry from the sheer feeling of him enveloped in your hips again, you’ve never missed something so much.

Arthur leans back down and kisses you, pressing open your lips with his tongue, groaning into your mouth as he retracts his hips, pressing forward again gently, waiting for any negative response from you.

All he gets is a soft mewl from your throat and your fingers making their way into his hair, to which he takes as permission to find a rhythm of lovemaking.

He doesn’t know what he’s done to be given this chance - after all of his sins, all of the crime and the blood and the wrong that he’s committed in his miserable life - how any benevolent deity could even think about giving him anything.

You moan his name into his ear as he gently rolls his hips into yours. A faint pang of desire settles in his gut - the desire to thrust into you like the early days of your relationship - rough and heady with the need to make you scream. But this isn’t the time. He is more than satisfied moving above you, slowly, gently, and with care.

He’s seen what you’ve been through - he saw how the birth of his daughter took a toll on you - the last thing he would ever want to do would be to hurt you.

You give a hushed cry, nails digging into his neck, as you clench around him. Arthur lowers himself to place his forehead on yours, smiling before pressing his lips against yours, urging entrance again with his tongue. He slows his hips, eventually coming to rest as you pant beneath him, taking in the sweet feeling of constriction on his shaft.

“There’s my girl.” He rasps between open-mouthed kisses, his lips curving upward in a smile.

“God,” you moan, “Ngh-, Arthur…” Coming down from your high, your hands sweep across his broad shoulder blades, the hard muscle returning after his long convalescence recovering from his sickness.

“Mm?” He presses his lips to the bridge of your nose as your breathing slows down.

“Lemme-” you try to push him off of you, hand under his shoulder, “- Lemme get you-”

“Darlin’. You ain’t gotta do nothin’.” He responds, brushing a stray lock of your hair from your forehead.

“I wanna-, I wanna hear the noise you make when you come.” You whine, continuing to push on his shoulder, completely unable to move him in your frustration.

Arthur smiles, and extricates himself from your hips, settling himself to lay at your side, one of his hands spread out on the expanse of skin at your hip, damp with a sheen of sweat. Finally out from under his frame, you lean over him, pressing his hip back so that he lies down on his back. You press kisses down his jaw, across his collarbones and chest, down his stomach to his hips. He grunts slightly as you grasp his shaft in your hand, splayed across his hips as you move to take him in your mouth.

Arthur moans needily as you bob downward.

You look up at him, mouth full of cock, and he’s immediately back in a fancy drawing room wearing a black suit, your eyes just as mischievous as those early days. Those early days when you and he would sneak off and pry orgasms from each other with greedy fingers.

He leans up slightly and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ears. Arthur smiles, his eyes fluttering as you gently suck. Your hands fondle him, and he does more than shutter his eyes when you lean over farther, taking the entirety of him in your mouth, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat.

“Darl- god-” he pants, unable to keep his eyes on you as he stares at the ceiling, “I’m gonna -get off, gonna -”

He looks back down to find you staring at him with that glint of mischief before you bob down again. Arthur grunts, one hand fisting the sheets.

“Oh god, sweetheart-” his hips buck up once, uncontrolled, as you can taste the beginnings of his orgasm - salty and bitter and very much him. He babbles on as his cock twitches in your mouth, “ Jesus, woman - ngh - suckin’ me so good, -agh - it’s all for you -fuck-”

He bucks up once more and you press your head downward, and with a helpless groan, Arthur stutters his hot release down your throat, gasping in pleasure as you swallow each drip.

You sit up, wiping your mouth as Arthur falls back on the pillow, utterly spent.

“Jesus, woman, you ain’t lost your touch.” He laughs, swiping at his sweaty forehead as he stares up at the bedroom ceiling.

You smile in return, gently rubbing his hip as he comes down from his high. After a few moments, he raises his head and takes you in with a satiated grin.

“Get over here-” he pulls at you and you happily acquiesce, draping yourself over him as you settle in at his side. Your head pillows on his collarbone, your hand placed firmly over his beating heart. With you securely wrapped in his arms, skin on skin, in this small house you share, your baby girl sleeping across the hall, Arthur marvels at the state of his life.

He doesn’t know how he’s been blessed with this ending. Lord knows he doesn’t deserve it.

But for you - for her - he will walk the narrow path that he has evaded the entirety of his life. You fall asleep quickly, as Arthur pulls the sheet over your nude bodies. Through the somewhat dusty window, the moonlight shines on the pale skin of your shoulder.

Arthur shuts his eyes, a wistful smile settling in on his face as he’s back on the shoreline of Flat Iron Lake, watching your bare form in the waters, bathing in the light of the full moon.

He’s thankful for whoever or whatever decided to have mercy on him. For all of his sinning, for all that he is - he is completely unworthy of the hand he’s been dealt.

One doesn’t choose whether or not they get considered for redemption, he figures. All he knows is that he’s gotten it.

#red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic #red dead fanfic #red dead fandom #rdr2 smut #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan fanfiction #rdr2 fic #seven deadly sins #twolafic

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pluto-rainstorm · 2 months

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New fic!! 🤠

#ao3: plutorainstorm #charthur #johnigail #rdr2 #modern au #arthur morgan #john marston #charles smith #abigail roberts #hosea matthews #bessie matthews #rdr2 fic #red dead redemption 2 #ao3 fanfic

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rivetingrosie4 · 20 days

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Sweet Love (Morgan & Family: A Fluff Dump, Pt. 3)

credit to @foundynnel i believe for the edit above

𑁦𐂂𑁦

Summary: Part of a modern au (and post gang) fluff dump work. Arthur & reader visit the doctor’s office to see their baby for the first time. Some thoughtless rudeness threatens to derail their happy day. a/n: It’s just imaginary. It’s not real.

Tags: fluff without plot, fluff & angst, romantic fluff, hurt/comfort, protective Arthur, parenthood, mentions of sex, romantic teasing

Word count: 4,250

The paper underneath you rustles as you swing and bounce both feet at the edge of the exam bed by your ankles; but you can’t help it. Never in your wildest dreams did you actually think you’d ever get here.

Yet here you are, with Arthur by your side, filled past the brim with the most effervescent sparkles of nerves and anticipation. To actually see your baby. Your baby. Yours and Arthur’s. No one else’s. The product of your deep and steadfast love. After so very many, many years of so deeply pining, watching almost everyone around you know the precious gifts of their own children and parenthood, it’s finally your turn. Finally. It’s almost too much to hope for and be grateful for, all at once. You never thought you’d ever get here.

Where you lie waiting in the sterile obstetrics room, you glance to look at Arthur. He’s clad in a blue and green plaid lumberjack’s soft flannel. And he’s filled with just as high a mound of bubbly nerves as you—some of the same, but some of a different kind. Anxiety and excitement, longing and terror, all stirred to the beautiful hue of Arthur Morgan’s heart, the only one you know so well. You can tell by the way he labors to silently breathe in, holds it a beat, and purses his lips to produce protruding cheeks as he silently releases, so you might not hear it. By the way he shoves his fingers back through his honey-chestnut locks. By the way he taps the sole of his black leather boot—the pair with the classic western flourish above the toe that you love so much—against the floor’s shining white tile.

You bite your lip against a growing grin and reach to slip your fingers into the natural pocket created by the web of his relaxed hand.

At the contact, he glances to you, and his face immediately relaxes into a knowing smile, eased by familiarity, love, and the renewed comfort you gift to him. His large hand clasps around yours, and his thumb brushes your skin. You join him in a growing smile as you hold onto him right back.

Suddenly there's a knock on the exam room door, and as it opens, all at once the resting butterflies in your belly are spurred to fluttery life again.

You look to the door and sit upright, taking a shallow breath and gently holding it as the doctor walks in. He’s a somewhat older gentleman with graying brown hair.

“Here we are. Good m—” He tilts his wrist and glances at his silver watch. “Well I guess it’s not morning anymore. Sorry to keep you folks waiting.” He sits on a round stool with a black cushion, and its wheels sound out across the tile as he rolls it closer. “I’m Doctor Kellerman. Good to meet you.” He takes your hand by only the fingers and shakes it, then shakes Arthur’s. In the next moment, he’s glancing down to the paperwork on his clipboard. “How we feeling today?”

It takes you a split moment to put into practice the knowledge that you’re the reason everyone in the room is here.

“Oh! I’m feeling fine,” you smile at his downcast face, since he hasn’t looked up from your chart. Your hand instinctively slides forward to rest on your belly, though it doesn’t look much bigger than usual, with the flab you store there. “Fit as I’ve ever been,” you airily chuckle. Looking to Arthur at your side, you smirk. “We’ve been staying as active as we ever were, or maybe even more so.”

“Yeah, it’s been more,” Arthur quietly mumbles with a chuckle in confirmation.

“Getting outside, and eating all the leafy greens, and…takin’ naps when I need to,” you chuckle as if you’ve made a fine joke. “I even got him to do stretches with me every morning!”

The doctor glances up with a genuine smile. “That’s great to hear.” Just as soon, his eyes return to your chart. “I see your last period was…”

“January thirty-first,” you finish for him.

“Ahhh… Valentine’s baby, eh?”

You fight not to warm as you steal a glance at Arthur with a pinched smile. “Guess so.”

“You’ve been trying many years?”

“Just about a year and a half.”

“Thirteen weeks…” he says as he flips a page back and forth, then looks up at you. “You’re in a little later than we usually like.”

As he glances back down, you clarify, “Yes, this was the very soonest they could get us in for our first appointment.”

“I see…” he mumbles.

“But we cleared our schedules for whatever they could give us, the very soonest,” you add, looking to Arthur for a nod, then back to the doctor. “We’re takin’ this baby very seriously. Doin’ everything we can to keep ‘em healthy and happy.”

“That’s great,” he responds with a smile as he finally claps the chart closed and returns it to the counter. “Seems like you’ve got the right mentality,” he says as he turns to wash his hands at the sink. “Keeping yourself as healthy as you can be is a great place to start.”

“Oh yes,” you smile. “I’ve been reading up on everything I can, researching, even watching YouTube videos.” You suddenly gasp a little in excitement. “I saw this one lady on there, she’s always been an avid hiker—and, well, we love to hike too,” you glance to Arthur, whose smirk gradually grows to a grin in conjunction with your eager babbling, though it’s unknown to you after you’ve returned your gaze to the doctor. “And she captures these beautiful videos of her hikes. And now she’s seven months pregnant and still hiking! I could hardly believe it. Of course, she doesn’t manage the big, tasking hikes. And she never ever goes alone!” you assure the doctor. “But because she’s been taking it slow and steady, she’s still hiking! At seven months!”

You grin as you finish your story, though the doctor’s back is still turned to you. “I just think it’s so wonderful. I’d love to be able to do that. Do you think I’ll be able to do that, doctor? Take gentle hikes at seven months?”

“Uh… Maybe ten years ago. But with a geriatric first-time pregnancy?” He tips his head as he switches on the ultrasound machine. “Probably not.”

Just like that, you feel as icy as the vast and empty planes of snow you had experienced with the gang in Colter, some years ago now. The high, craggy ridgelines you’d squinted at from above your wool-lined collar, their peaks untouched by anything but the flakes that fell and gathered in the tors and the winds that yowled and whistled.

Your smile from moments ago softly falters, and your brows slowly pinch up tight. But you fight hard to keep your staggered smile as the tears rush to your eyes.

What was there you could have ever done? How had it ever been a circumstance you’d had any power over, whatsoever? How had it ever been a gift you could manufacture from nothing? If it had been, you would have seized it years ago. How many years had you ached, your hope dwindling as your age grew? And did all those years now mean nothing? How often, how continuously, how deeply had you longed for love of your very own with a partner and children of your own; had longed for just one chance to jump at? Just one single chance? But hadn’t life kept it all far away from you, so far, for so very long?

It was life, nothing but life—this thing that has always simultaneously coursed through you and encased you in its cruel, clamp-like vise. Like a vital coffin.

As Arthur watches you, he recognizes the graciousness and understanding of your trying to maintain a smile through your depth of feeling and hurt, not wanting to be as fragile as you think yourself to be. He knows you to be strong.

It’s why he has to reel back his fury for a few moments, containing it to the single, elongated exhale from his nostrils as he leans toward you across the armrest of your exam bed and gently takes your hands.

Reaching for a box of gloves on the wall, the doctor asks, “You don’t have any allergies to latex or any cosmetic ingredients that you know of, do you?”

You quietly splutter and gulp as you shake your head and muster a calm, normally-toned, “No.”

Another knock on the door.

“Come on in,” the doctor says.

The nurse who brought you back to the room enters.

“They’re wanting to know if or when they need to set her up with an appointment for a future ultrasound,” she says directly to the doctor.

“Oh sure,” the doctor says, beginning to flip a big calendar on his desk as he waves the nurse closer. He murmurs to her in very quiet tones: “It’s advanced maternal age with high risk, elderly primigravida, so we’re gonna wanna do another in about three months.”

You have no recourse but to silently, slowly breathe through an open mouth and swallow repeatedly past the lump in your throat, as your smile finally disappears in full. But Arthur couldn’t be more spellbound or enchanted as he watches the tears remain clung to your eyes, not one trickling down your beautiful cheeks.

“Possibly one additional,” the doctor continues his discussion with the nurse, completely oblivious to the inner struggle to prevail that he’s spurred in you, that no one but Arthur knows you’re conquering. “But we’ll wait to see how the next ultrasound goes, and if both are healthy, she won’t need another.” He points to a square on the calendar. “Barring other appointments, why don’t we do this day?”

The nurse nods and retreats through the door, closing it behind her.

“We’ll have to do abdominal, rather than vaginal, since you’re further along than usual for the first ultrasound,” the doctor says. “All right,” he sighs as he turns to you with a grin. “Ready to get started?”

He’s greeted with your puffy, red eyes that look everywhere else and Arthur’s white-hot, enraged glare, trained dead-center on his forehead. And his smile slides off his face.

The legs of Arthur’s chair squeak against the tile as he abruptly stands. He can’t even be bothered to attempt a kindly mask to hide his fury.

“Doc,” he begins, managing an easy and lighthearted tone for the address that somehow seems more menacing when combined with his fatal expression as he turns him and walks him toward the door. “Why don’t you and I have a little chat.” The terse word is tart and clipped on his tongue. “Out in the hall.”

You watch Arthur’s tall, broad form disappear when he pulls the door closed behind him.

You sit alone in the exam room, waiting.

A few unintelligible words, low and quiet—Arthur’s voice, muffled.

Then the wall is hit hard with something and rattles. Before it can finish shaking, there’s a new acerbic sharpness in Arthur’s raised, growly tone.

You must’ve gasped and jumped a little, and your damp eyelashes still blink with the sudden shock. You might’ve even made out the sound of a panicked, huffed grunt in the midst of whatever happened on the other side of the wall.

After a moment, the image comes to you, very vividly: Arthur suddenly taking the doctor by the collar of his white coat and ramming him up against the wall with a few deadly words, a stern snarl to his lip, and a feral look in his eye.

A prickly, chilled mingling of emotions washes over you—amazement, disbelief, even a bit of near-horrified abashment, and worry that Arthur will receive unfavorable legal repercussions. But there are a few emotions that stand above the others, though you’d initially struggled to decipher their shape and quality. The wondrous stirrings of the deepest love. The warm and enveloping sensations of being protected and cared for. Even desire.

The tiniest twitch of a smile flicks onto one corner of your mouth.

There are several minutes more of quiet—during which your thoughts start to return to the horrendous notion that Arthur could be apprehended for assaulting the doctor—before the door finally reopens and Arthur reappears.

His caustic expression from minutes ago is wiped away. His smile is easy. Relaxed, even. Void of a hint of tenseness or concern.

“Hey, babe,” he says. “Sorry we took a while.”

At the sight of him, and knowing at least part of what he’s done, your mouth quirks and tightens into the kind of little smile you know you shouldn’t be wearing.

As he walks towards you, a slight lean to the side gives you the vantage point to see none other than a completely different, female doctor towing behind him.

Her grin is bright, buoyant, and—somehow, given the circumstances—even completely authentic and natural. Uncoerced.

As Arthur settles in close beside you again, you mumble very quietly from the side of your mouth, “I sincerely hope there won’t be any arrests today…?”

“Nothin’ to worry about, just take it easy and look at the screen,” he mumbles between his teeth in a light, wry tone.

You stifle a chortle behind your nose, imagining what possible kinds of threats Arthur could’ve employed, how dreadfully terrified to his core the doctor must’ve been to not only allow a switch of caregivers, but to willingly and practically forget the whole incident.

“Good afternoon, I’m Doctor Mahajan,” she says warmly, extending a hand. Her handshake is full and comforting in its grasp. “I’ll be conducting your ultrasound today. And before we get started, I want to let you know that, should you remain healthy and well into your third trimester, and should you feel up to it, there’s no reason you couldn’t enjoy healthy activities such as gentle outdoor hikes.”

Like a kid who’s just opened up a new toy, your grin widens as you look at Arthur. His knowing grin is better than a snuggly blanket as he gazes at you and nods once with a wink.

“Always accompanied, of course,” the doctor smiles with a gesture towards Arthur. When she looks back to you, your gaze is pulled to hers in an effort to give polite attention. “You’ve got a good one here, Mrs. Morgan.”

You immediately turn back to Arthur with a warm, enamored, affectionate smile.

Noting the enraptured, desirous way you both gaze at each other right there in the middle of the exam room, the doctor is reminded of something.

“Oh, and um,” she begins, bringing a finger to her lips as if in thought, “another healthy activity during pregnancy is lovemaking.”

You immediately turn to look at her with and inward breath, your smile momentarily wiped away. As an airy laugh comes to you, the others are given reign to chuckle. Chancing a glance at Arthur, you try to hide the smile appearing on your mouth by curling your lips inward and pinching down on them tightly with your teeth.

Arthur is leaned back casually in his chair, his forearm resting over his thigh. When you catch sight of the look on his face—a subtle mixture of gratification and mischievousness all veiled by an attempt at nonchalance—a thought crosses your mind. But it’s too silly to be real.

Then when he meets your eye and fails to prevent the rising smirk at the corner of his lips, you outright gasp.

“You didn’t tell her to say that.”

When he wheezes, you swat him, and he sits up with a snicker.

The doctor chuckles pleasantly. “He may’ve asked me to remind you, but it doesn’t change the truth of it.” While you’re busy continuing to playfully swat him and listening to his snickering that you adore, the doctor continues, “It increases blood flow, stimulates activity inside the womb, lowers blood pressure…” she rattles off, “and keeps you two close, which’ll be very important during such a big life change.”

“There now. Did you hear the good doctor?” Arthur says, trying to force the mirth on his face to smooth. “I’ve got a bonafide prescription to sex you up.”

Though you can’t help but giggle, you keep it murmured low and quiet, like simmering, scratch-made strawberry jam in the base of your throat. “Shh-shh,” you try to quietly scold him.

“I’ve reviewed your chart, so let’s get started, shall we?”

“Oh yes, please!” you return your attention to the doctor.

After gloving up, Doctor Mahajan flips on the ultrasound computer to your right. She asks you to lift your blouse and unbutton your jeans, and she squirts a chilly gel to your belly. You watch as she gently presses the transducer into the gel on your belly, turning and rolling it over your skin.

Your and Arthur’s gazes are transfixed to the screen as fuzzy, meaningless blotches of black and white suddenly play across it. You both simultaneously scramble to reach for each other’s hands, clasping tightly to each other as Arthur takes a full breath and slowly releases it.

The moment you have been waiting for your whole life. Now somehow finally, suddenly here.

The smudgy noise on the screen clears, and there’s your baby. Curled and caressed inside you. Precious and brilliant and beautiful.

Your breath is whisked away. Speechless and taken completely by incredulousness, you turn to look at Arthur with drawn brows. He tries to chuckle to play off his awe, but his breath is caught too.

“There we are,” the doctor quietly says. “Baby Morgan.”

Your gaze is arrested by your baby on the screen. The swooping slope of the curve of their head, ending in a little button for a nose. Arms and legs and feet.

“This fluttery bit here,” the doctor gestures to a point flapping swiftly in the midst of their chest, visually different from everything else. “Baby’s heart.”

Your bottom lip drapes wistfully open, and your eyes are glued as you take in every moment.

“Oh, see, they’re turning on their side, turning back,” the doctor smiles as baby’s limbs disappear for a moment and reappear. “It’s a little too early to tell the baby’s sex, but we should be able to see at your next appointment.”

She takes multiple measurements from head to rump on the screen, to verify your baby’s age and due date.

When the baby appears to give a few little kicks, the three of you quietly chuckle.

“Baby’s brain and sensory input are developing, so this is just a way for them to become more aware of their own body and their environment,” she explains. “It’s a little early now, but you’ll be feeling that before you know it.”

Reaching for a button on the keypad, she says with a reassuring nod, “I’m going to give you about ten seconds of audible heart rate, just to limit the amount of waves baby’s exposed to this early.”

When you both nod, she presses the button. A loud, quick wub-wub fills the room.

You take a breath and whisper, “Oh my God,” looking to Arthur with a faint smile.

Arthur is mystified. A single breathy laugh escapes him, but his expression is totally awestruck.

“Baby’s heart is very robust and healthy,” the doctor smiles.

And yet, Arthur’s is weak. Trembling with trepidation like stalks of overgrown sweet grass swept by ferociously rolling fetches. They have their anchor of earth to cling to. What does he have?

He gazes at the screen, into his baby’s current world of warm womb and peaceful, pocketed embrace. He watches his baby wiggle and kick, each movement so vibrantly charged. He lets his gaze trace his baby’s perfectly precious outline, the slope of their forehead and nose, the flutter of their strong heart. And he is a goner.

It doesn’t matter that he’s petrified his baby could be torn from him again. It doesn’t matter that he’s nervous he’ll screw everything up. He’ll go to the ends of the earth to make sure neither happens. He’ll do whatever needs to be done. He’s ready to dive headfirst into the risk of pain and heartache. Because in an instant, he’s been filled—overwhelmed and overtaken—with enrapturing love. Too big to grasp, too deep and beautiful and mysterious to have edges. A love that calls to attention and demands eager and ardent self-sacrifice. A love that somehow carries with it equal measures of unbridled, airy giddiness and heavy weight. A love that somehow nails to the beams of a parent’s life both an assured unworthiness and a boundless, indescribable gratefulness.

Because he is already so desperately, limitlessly in love with his child. Your child. Together.

You turn to the screen again and watch your baby move and bow and kick.

Your baby. Yours and Arthur’s. You’re not watching a video of someone else’s baby. You’re not dreaming and imagining. This is your baby. Your. Baby.

In these few instants that seem like hours, the face of your whole world and life and being have eclipsed and shifted. You’re completely overwhelmed. With love and joy—not at all more than what you have for Arthur, but different. It fills and quickens and overtakes you. So much that it almost hurts. So deep and resounding that it propels a new purpose and a new drive within you. So sweet and so precious that if you’d been standing, it undoubtedly would’ve brought you all the way to your knees.

“Baby.” You breathe it as you reach out and touch the flat surface of the screen, swiping your fingertips over the outlines and substance of your child’s precious form.

The culmination of your life’s dearest, deepest hopes and dreams and desperate longings. The manifestation of your and Arthur’s love. There, on the screen. But not on the screen.

“Oh-” You chuckle at yourself and sniffle as you bring your hand to your belly, above where the transducer meets your skin. For the screen only shows you what you can’t see inside.

Inside you.

Of all people, you. Finally you. Finally, your very own baby.

Arthur can almost read your thoughts as he watches your eyes redden and your face crumple like newspaper, sift like sand. And now, there are your tears. Overflowing and pouring down your cheeks in flooded streams. Not one allowed for the asinine doctor; whole oceans given for your child.

God, how he loves you. Didn’t think he could possibly love you any more, and yet, here it is. You are his anchor. He doesn’t need any other. And he is yours.

Wordless, you gasp and sputter and hiccup as the tears flow down both sides of your face in rivulets, dripping one after the other from your jaw.

Arthur thumbs the back of your hand, not offering you a tissue or requiring you to stop or hide your tears. He understands.

It’s another few minutes of enjoying your baby’s tumbling movements on the screen, before your tears finally slow and dry.

When you approach the jeep in the parking lot, you’re still awed and glowing with it, and almost wracked to fatigue by its powerfully engulfing wave—this love.

As you slip your hand into the jeep’s door handle, your thoughts turn to the man you love just as much, if not more. You couldn’t have thought it possible, but somehow your heart has expanded to accommodate all this added and immeasurable love.

Arthur bought the hunter green jeep as soon as he’d found out you were pregnant. ‘More of a family car,’ he’d said. Of course, that was nine weeks ago, and the jeep has already seen plenty of proper use—the splashes of dark mud above its tires from rugged, off-road terrain a clear sign of that.

You both climb up into your seats and fall into a natural rhythm of quiet breath after the jingle of the keys when Arthur leaves them in the ignition.

He looks over at you and watches your stunning face as you gaze forward, contentedly and placidly lost in your thoughts. To him, you’re made even more pricelessly, sweetly beautiful by the person you are.

“‘M proud of you,” he quietly muses.

You look back at him and start to smile. Out of all the things he could say first, that’s what he’s chosen.

“That was our baby,” he says, the low gravel in his voice now silken. “Just…”

“Amazing,” you say together.

You nod with a misty smile and gaze down at your belly before gazing forward through the windshield again.

He reaches for your hand and brings it to his mouth. “I’m gonna take you home and make sweet,” he presses a kiss to the segments of your fingers, “sweet,” another kiss to your fingers, “sweet love to you.” With that, he kisses the back of your hand. “Mama.”

You simply turn to look at him with a growing, winsome smile. His eyes flit up to yours in the midst of a kiss. It’s the very first time in your life anyone has ever called you that.

“All day and all night. And you best just get used to it.” He gently returns your hand to the seat and starts the car.

Your smile brightens to radiant.

“Sorry, darlin’,” he says with the glint of a wink. “Doctor’s orders.”

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mlmxreader · 5 months

Text

For Just One Night | Arthur Morgan x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ you already know. arthur morgan x gn!reader “"It's stupid of me, to think that you would wanna be more than friends" TEEHEE THANK YOU - @mockerycrow ❞

: ̗̀➛ To love an outlaw is to accept fate and to know that your death will be on his hands; but Arthur doesn't want you to accept that, he doesn't.

: ̗̀➛ swearing, mentions of violence/death

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

Ever since you had met Arthur, you had had a budding friendship; when he first met you, you were just a lowly farmhand, tending to the cattle more than anything, and he had stumbled upon you when he was trying to escape from a storm.

It became somewhat commonplace after that - he would come over in the dead of night, hat in hand and puppy dog eyes all blue and sweet on you. Almost begging for sanctuary from either bounty hunters or the weather.

It didn’t matter much to you which he was escaping from, always happy to welcome him into the barn where you slept above the cattle. Yet there was one thing that Arthur would never admit to. He would never be caught dead admitting that he enjoyed your company a lot more than as a friend, not in the slightest.

Of course, he wanted to, but he knew that it wasn’t right; pulling you into his life, into what he did. Forcing your hand and making you choose between immediate heartache or eventual heartbreak. He didn’t want to put you into that position.

It was too dangerous for you to be around him. He knew that all too well, and knew that he had to break it off with you as quickly as possible, save you from missing him.

It was late, around twenty past two in the morning, when Arthur climbed through the window in the barn; he found you awake in your spot above the cattle, a little lamp burning next to you as you flicked through a dime novel.

He wanted to smile, but knew he couldn’t as he settled himself next to you all too naturally. You immediately leaned into him, humming softly as you thumbed through the book; Arthur couldn’t bring himself to speak yet, putting his arm around your shoulders as he grumbled softly under his breath.

You eventually closed your book, looking up at him and humming contently.

“Howdy, stranger.”

Arthur’s breath caught in his throat as he blushed a little bit. “Hey… you alright?”

You nodded, pushing yourself away a little so you could look into his eyes for a moment. “You look upset - what’s happened?”

He shrugged, taking off his hat and fiddling with the bit of rope around it. “I, erm… look, I ain’t no good at this stuff, but… I think it’s best I go away… and don’t come back.”

You furrowed your brows, tilting your head to the side. “Why?”

“You ain’t gonna be safe,” he explained, “if I keep comin’ here… you ain’t gonna be safe. It’s too dangerous for me to keep comin’ here.”

You shook your head. “You… no.”

“I gotta,” he whispered, gently cupping your jaw in his rough hands. “I like you a lot, but… I can’t.”

“Arthur,” you whimpered, putting your hands on his as your vision became blurry. “Don’t go, please… I… please don’t go…”

A sting settled in his chest, harsh and cold like the plunge of a dagger; he didn’t want to, but he knew that he would have to in order to protect you from everyone.

The Pinkertons. Bounty hunters. Rival gangs.

He was putting you at risk by being near you. He let out a shaky sigh, clenching his jaw for a moment before pulling away.

“It’s for the best,” he told you.

“I know, it’s… it’s stupid of me, to think that you would wanna be more than friends,” you muttered. “But please… please don’t go… I promise I’ll be good for you…”

Arthur sighed, wishing he could close himself up completely, destroy the part of him that overwhelmingly wanted to stay; he settled back down at your side, moving so that he could rest his head on your stomach.

“I don’t wanna see you get hurt, ‘s all…”

“I can handle a shotgun,” you whispered. “I promise, I won’t get in the way.”

He was still screaming at himself for staying, but when you settled down, almost cuddling into him when he fidgeted around to let you have some comfort, holding onto him so tightly, he knew he didn’t have the strength.

He wasn’t strong enough to walk away, to heed the warnings and to know that he was going to cause your death.

Arthur sighed heavily, shaky as he tugged you closer. “I shouldn’t stay…”

“Please do,” you mumbled. “I… Arthur, I’m… I’m so fucking fond of you.”

A sinking feeling snuggled down into his stomach as he held onto you. “I know.”

Arthur knew it more than anybody; his lifestyle, the path he had chosen and couldn’t wander or stray from, was going to be the death of you. He didn’t want your blood on his hands, but even more than that, he didn’t want you to get hurt; he didn’t want you to suffer the heartbreak when he was eventually killed.

He didn’t want you to suffer the heartache of missing him all the time.

But you were so adamant that, for a few fleeting moments, he thought that he could actually be happy; he thought that he had actually found someone who accepted him entirely and didn’t fool themselves into thinking that he would ever be able to leave his outlaw days.

Yet the risk still weighed heavily on his shoulders, and he couldn’t help it as he grumbled and gently ran his hand up and down your bare skin. It felt so good to be loved, to be wanted.

It felt so good to be holding onto someone who genuinely wanted and needed him there that he was almost about to forget the risk he was putting you in. He almost forgot that danger followed him like an old hunting dog.

But maybe… maybe for just one night, he could try and be happy.

He could try to ignore the fact that he was going to be your cause of death; that he was going to make you hurt in such awful ways nobody could ever imagine.

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agoldengalaxy · 4 months

Text

Meant to Be

read on Ao3

words: 2768

Charles Smith lived on his own, in the woods, for almost fifteen years, but when a confrontation with the Pinkerton Detective Agency ends badly, he is helped by two kind, mysterious strangers who offer him safety with their gang.

Steadying his breath, Charles narrowed his eyes toward the other man, his mind racing. The man, after chasing him down on horseback, stood upon the hill alone, wearing a bowler hat, a gold pin, and a stupid grin.

“Ah, finally. The man in the woods. I’ve been wanting to meet you for quite some time.” The stranger’s voice was calm and condescending as his hand drifted toward his belt, resting lightly on the hilt of his gun.

“Why?” Charles asked, already wondering which weapon he should have at the ready. “What could you possibly want with me?”

The man seemed delighted by something. “So you do speak! Why, I figured you were more animal than human…”

Charles drew in sharp breath, deciding he should probably reach for the revolver he’d stolen some time ago if things went even more south. “That didn’t answer my question.”

His mouth twitched, and the man held up his hands in a surrender motion. “No harm, no foul.” He reached up to tip his hat. “My name is Edward Williams. I work for the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Some reports came in about a man who lived in the woods; a man who was very good at hunting.”

“So you came to take me down because I need to survive?”

“No, no, nothing like that. Don’t get so defensive with me, sir.” Williams still had that grin on his face as he spoke. “No, in fact, I’m here to offer you a job with the agency. We need more detectives who are…ah…better in the field. Better at hunting. Besides, civilization is becoming quite popular these days. It isn’t necessary for you to live out here.”

Charles paused, thinking this must be some kind of sick prank. He hadn’t seen any humans around these parts for a while - how had a detective gotten out here? And stranger still, why would they offer him a job, the man who had been living in the woods since he was thirteen?

It had to be a trap. And even if it wasn’t, Charles didn’t want to work for the government system that took his parents away from him. His mother, the army. His father, the bottle.

“Thank you for the offer, but I’m not interested. I’m sure you can find someone else that fits your description, Detective Williams.” Charles bowed his head as a sign of respect, however wavering it may have been, and watched as the detective’s mouth twisted a little.

“What a shame,” Williams sighed. “In that case, I hope I do not have to use force to ask you to come with me again.”

Charles eyed the man for a moment. “You said you weren’t here to take me down.”

“I wasn’t. I was offering you the job, but since you’ve refused, we’ll have to take you in as a suspect instead.” The agent tilted his head. “Lot of complaints ‘round these parts about an Indian roaming around all suspiciously. We have to protect the women and children.” His gaze hardened. “Don’t resist, it will only make things harder for you.” A leaf crunched atop the hill, but it wasn’t Williams. Charles froze, watching five men join Williams atop the hill, all holding guns. They had been there the whole time, just out of sight, and Charles was beginning to wish he had just made a run for it the second the man opened his mouth. Williams smiled, fake pity on his face. “No need for the long face. My friends won’t hurt you, long as you come up here nice and quiet.”

His gaze swept across the six detectives. Surely he’d be able to take them, and he could just get back to his life away from other human beings. Pulling out his revolver as quickly as he could, he dove behind a nearby boulder while Williams yelled at his men to open fire. Bullets rained down and Charles muttered a curse under his breath.

He knew it was a trap.

Taking a deep breath, he listened to the sound of the bullets to tell him when he could peek up and aim. He aimed and shot. One in the chest, one in the head, one clean through the stomach. Three detectives remained, but they knew better than to stay where they were, beginning to close in on the boulder where Charles hid. He had to do this fast. He aimed upward, pulling the trigger while rolling behind the nearest tree. A yell of anguish filled the air and he knew they were just down to two men left. As he fumbled to reload his revolver, he felt cold metal press against his back.

“Drop the gun,” Williams hissed into his ear, and Charles reluctantly did so. “Much better. Now we can get along, hm?”

The other detective smirked, still aiming his own gun directly at Charles. He opened his mouth to say something when suddenly, a shot rang through the air. Blood splattered everywhere from the other detective’s face, and is body dropped to the ground. In his shock, Williams let go of Charles, who turned around to wrestle the man to the ground, kicking his gun away from him. Williams snarled, spitting on Charles’ face.

“You’re nothing.”

Charles, his breath heaving, stood up to aim his gun down. He didn’t hesitate.

Once Williams was nothing more than a corpse, Charles breathed in, looking around wildly for the source of the other bullet. It couldn’t have been the Pinkertons.

In the distance, near the clearing, stood two silhouettes, blotted out by the golden light of the setting sun. He remembered his father once talking about angels, but he never quite believed it. Now, he wondered if it were true.

“Hey, there,” one of the silhouettes called. Both shadows held up their hands to show they no longer wielded guns as they took cautious steps forward. “Are you alright?”

Charles still held his revolver, just in case. These men had saved him, but he’d learned a long time ago that many men would save people specifically for ulterior motives. “Yes, I’m fine,” he answered anyway. It was the truth. He was uninjured, and things had been a whole lot worse a few minutes ago.

Perhaps feeling a little more confident, the two men continued walking until they were just a few feet away, and now Charles could get a better look at them. They looked like normal men, but being able to shoot someone from that distance so accurately told him they weren’t normal.

The older man, with kind eyes and gray hairs hidden beneath a dark hat, gave Charles a once-over. “I’m glad to hear that, son. Why were the Pinkertons after you?”

“I…don’t know,” he admitted, finding himself less and less intimidated by the second. “He said something about people reporting me to them. But I don’t talk to anyone.” Deep down, he knew the reason why. He knew, because of the looks people would give him just because of the way he looked, because of who his parents were, because of who he was.

“You know how some people are,” the other man, with the sandy hair and well-trimmed beard, mumbled, as if reading his thoughts. “An’ the Pinkertons are bullies.”

Charles nodded, glancing down at the body of Williams. “Seems that way.” He looked back up, clearing his throat. “Thank you…for the help. I should get going. They’re probably gonna be sending more this way, after all that gunfire.”

“Yes, probably,” the older man agreed, but tilted his head slightly. “It’s not safe for you here anymore. Would you…like to come with us?”

“Come with you?” he repeated incredulously, glancing between both men. The younger one had the ghost of a smile on his face, like this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. “I don’t even know you.”

“My name is Hosea Matthews. This here is Arthur Morgan. We got a camp, few miles north from here, full of lovely folks. You’re welcome to come with us, check things out, and you can leave if you want.”

Charles narrowed his eyes slightly. “Who are you, really?”

“We’re a gang,” Arthur answered plainly, as if it weren’t a big deal. “We ain’t good people, but we’re better than those bastards.” He nodded toward the bodies, and Charles followed his gaze.

His mind told him to run away, to not trust these men. He figured nothing good could come of it. He’d survived this long on his own before, surely he could take more of those agents if they came. Though he knew that was the rational way of thinking, his heart told him to trust them. His heart told him that if not for them, he could be dead by now.

Maybe it was Hosea’s kind eyes. Maybe it was Arthur’s smirk. He couldn’t tell.

“…Alright. I’ll come with you.”

Charles went toward one of the nearby trees to grab his small satchel. He could hear the two quietly talking amongst themselves.

“You’re never excited when we invite a new feller,” Hosea was saying goodnaturedly, probably not meaning for Charles to hear. Arthur scoffed.

“You seen how he handled them, Hosea. He’s pretty good.”

“So was Micah, and you hate him.”

“Micah’s an idiot. This feller ain’t.”

When Charles returned to them, Hosea straightened up. “Do you have a horse, son?” When he shook his head, Hosea glanced at his companion. “Well, then, you can ride with Arthur. We got plenty of horses at camp you can borrow.” They each lifted a hand to their mouths, whistling, and the sound of galloping hooves grew louder and louder until two horses appeared beside them.

Hosea mounted his, and Arthur gestured. “After you.”

Charles eyed Arthur for a moment. He couldn’t quite get a read on him. He wondered if it was possible that he really was just excited to meet him, to have him come join the gang. Without a word, he climbed on top of the saddle, and Arthur mounted in front of him. They took off.

They rode in silence for a few minutes. Charles watched the passing trees and mountains with the waning sunlight, the sky morphing into different colors with each new moment. Suddenly, Arthur spoke, his gruff voice carried on the wind.

“What’s your name?”

“Charles. Charles Smith.”

“Nice to meet you, Charles Smith.”

Charles couldn’t see his face, but he could hear a slight smile in his voice. He couldn’t help but do the same. “You too.”

***

To say it was all overwhelming would be an understatement.

There were a lot of people in this camp, and all the looks he got when they first arrived were not lost on him. Most of them seemed uneasy when he dismounted, and he found himself pressing a little closer to Arthur as they walked toward a nearby tent. Standing there, watching them approach, was a man with dark hair, smoking a cigarette. He looked straight at Hosea, his eyebrows raised, as if asking a silent question.

“Dutch, this is Charles Smith. He was being pursued by the Pinkertons, but he held his own very well. I told him he could lie low with us for a while,” Hosea explained, probably loud enough for most of the camp to hear.

The man, clearly the leader of this gang, turned his gaze instead to Charles. His eyes almost seemed hungry as he took him in, but he gave him a kind smile on top of it. “Of course you’re welcome to stay, Mr. Smith. We shoot fellers as need shootin’, save fellers as need savin’, feed fellers who need feedin’, and I assume you need those last two.” Exhaling a puff of smoke, Dutch lifted his gaze toward the other prying eyes. “Everyone! Please make our new friend feel welcome. This here is Charles Smith. He’ll be staying with us for a while.”

There were some quiet murmurs, but eventually everyone went back to what they were doing before. Charles awkwardly bowed his head toward Dutch. “Thank you. For the welcome.”

“Of course. Let us know if you need anything.”

Perhaps able to tell he was overwhelmed, Hosea placed a grounding hand on Charles’ shoulder. “Are you hungry, Charles?”

He blinked, the question suddenly making him aware of how hungry he actually was. “A little.” He hadn’t had time to find food yet. He didn’t think he’d eaten anything since last night.

He let Hosea guide him, saying goodbye to Arthur for the time being, and took in the night while they walked. It was loud, but it still felt calm. Charles hadn’t been around this many people in a long time. At least he knew, for now, he could trust Hosea and Arthur.

They approached a man standing by a large pot, drinking from a small flask. “Mr. Pearson, good evening! Do you have anything left from dinner?” Hosea greeted.

Pearson finished his swig, then glanced between the two, seemingly doing a double take. “Ah, the new guy! Nice to see another new face ‘round here. Sure, made some broth earlier. Hope you like rabbit.” Carefully, the man poured some of the thick liquid into a bowl with a spoon, then handed it over. He beamed at Hosea. “Glad to see you’re talkin’ up my cooking for once, Hosea!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say ‘talking up,”’ he replied, the ghost of a grin on his face, “but when you’re hungry, everything’s good. Come on, Charles.” Charles thanked Pearson for the food and followed Hosea toward one of the picnic tables. “Here you are, son. Would you like to be left alone?”

Charles blinked in surprise. Of all the questions he could have gotten, that was not one he was expecting. Even more surprisingly, the answer was no. “Um…Would you tell me about everyone here?”

For a moment, Hosea looked taken aback. And then a smile, a real genuine smile appeared on his face as he sat across from him. “Of course.”

***

Dutch was the leader.

Hosea was his partner in crime.

Arthur was their son. Not really, but the three of them began the gang.

John was next, and then the rest of them trickled in.

It would take a long time to remember all of these names, but he was strangely feeling at home here. He’d never been shown such hospitality before. Everyone had at least tried to be nice, except for the guy with blond hair and mustache who’d talked to him condescendingly like Williams. He couldn’t remember his name, but he was the type of guy he would expect to be in a gang. Surprisingly, he was the minority. All of these people were kind.

Charles sat quietly on a spare sleeping bag, looking up at the stars while the nearby campfire crackled. A lot of the camp was asleep now, but he didn’t feel tired yet, despite the day he’d had.

“Thought you would have run away by now.”

Lowering his gaze, Charles took Arthur in, his face illuminated by the fire. He held back a smile, shaking his head. “Not yet. Maybe tomorrow.” He didn’t see that happening.

Arthur smirked, walking toward his tent, which happened to be right next to Charles’ bag. “Just wait ‘til you hear Sean’s terrible singin’. Karen always swears she’ll never come back.”

Charles glanced back up at the stars, letting a few moments pass. Then, “The real reason you wanted me to come with you was because you wanted me to join the gang, right? You want me to help you get money ‘cause you saw how good I shoot?”

He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t a little satisfying that Arthur seemed taken aback. “Uh…we that obvious?”

“Yes. But…it’s okay.” Charles looked back at him. “You’re the one that shot the detective, aren’t you?” When Arthur nodded, he continued. “You saved my life. So maybe my life is meant to be more than just my own survival. I’ll help you.”

Arthur stared at him. “Wow. You’re pretty amazin’.”

Strangely, his heart skipped a beat. He supposed it was because he wasn’t used to talking to anyone at all, let alone being complimented. “...Thank you.”

A comfortable silence fell between them, and eventually, Arthur lay down in his sleeping bag. Charles continued to watch the fire burn until it was just embers, and then he lay down as well. The sky was full of twinkling stars that seemed to tell him this was where he was meant to be.

It didn’t take him long to fall asleep.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #charles smith #arthur morgan #hosea matthews #charthur #rdr2 fic #sorry if this doesn't make much sense #just wanted it to be cool #enjoy <3 #my writing #agoldengalaxy #my post

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