di-writes-stuff

[di-writes-stuff]

i just barked out loud

(also i promise i’m gonna get chapter five of cowboy like me out soon. sorry it’s taking so long, took a little mental health break after finals.)

∞ RED DEAD REDEMPTION 2

#rdr2 #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rdr #arthur morgan

[di-writes-stuff]

Cowboy Like Me

Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader

Chapter 4

A/N: Let’s hope the tumblr gods actually let people see this.

TW: Mild s€xual tension, suggestion of a murd€r (self defense). Not much, mostly just crippling fluff.

Life, as you’ve experienced it, becomes quite boring once you’re no longer on the run. Maybe that’s why meetings with Arthur have become something of an event for you. You’ve opted to ignore the other, more likely reasons for your excitement surrounding these encounters.

You’re cautious as you approach the fence, being sure no prying eyes are watching as you sneak off to sell your goods from the train robbery. Your eyes quickly stop scanning your environment as you zero in on one thing, or man, in front of you.

Arthur Morgan.

There’s a soft smile on his face as he watches you bring your horse to a stop, the dreamy kind most don’t even notice they’re wearing. He straightens up, walking away from the tree he’d been leaning on and into the sunlight, the only shadow on his body the one from his hat, casting a bit of darkness over his face. He raises a hand to help you off your horse, gently leading you to the ground. Neither of you let go for a moment until a greeting that’s become sweetly familiar falls from his lips.

“Ma’am.” His voice is hushed as he looks down at you, his smile reaching his eyes, causing little crows feet to appear at the corners. Your voice is just as quiet as you respond, as if your simple greeting is some kind of hidden secret for only the two of you to know.

“Arthur.” His reaches out his hand out for the sack your carrying, full of everything you made off with from the train. The weight that had been dragging down your arm passes to him easily, like a feather in his capable hands. There’s not a discernible difference as he walks to the fence despite the added weight, leaving you to walk beside him to the jittery man waiting inside.

Few words are spoken between him and Arthur, and the ones that are stay hushed. The man in the shack is frail, beady eyes darting back and forth, constantly checking for any watching passerby’s. He ducks away into the darkness of his shack once the sacks are handed over like some kind of spooked animal, re-emerging with money in tow. He slides the wad of cash over to Arthur, hands shaky from either nerves or drugs.

The tiny bruises dotting the inside of his elbow tell you it’s the latter. Probably morphine, heroin if he’s really let himself go. A part of you thinks him pathetic, letting himself spiral like that. Although, a twinge of sympathy hits you as you remember living the life of a thief isn’t much better.

You and Arthur back away from the shed, under the cover of a sturdy oak. His fingers sift through the cash, hushed whispers falling from his lips as he counts it out. Three hundred in total, you try to be discreet about your own counting as he hands you your share. It’s not as if you don’t trust him in particular, it’s just…

You don’t trust anyone, not really. Same reason that, besides Arthur, you’ve avoided working with others for years, especially men. They never did give you your share in full, whether it’s because they thought you were too dumb to count, or they really didn’t see why you’d deserve as much as them. Either way, it usually ended with you either pickpocketing the rest of what you earned, or taking it all along with their life.

Men have a habit of getting awful violent when they don’t get their way. It was only natural you’d have to defend yourself every once in a while.

Relief floods you as you finishing counting. One fifty. Exactly half.

It shouldn’t mean as much as it does. Plain fairness, and maybe it’s just because your looking for reasons to defend how much you’ve come to like Arthur. Still, a warmth fills you as you look up at him, met with a small smile gracing his lips. His voice is a little teasing as he talks, although there’s a hint of nerves at the blank expression on your face. “Don’t tell me I counted wrong.”

You just shake your head, a smile creeping onto your face. “No…it’s perfect.” You fidget with the cash in your hands, suddenly shy under his gaze. The warm glow of the sunset washes over him, all his features looking just a little softer in this light.

“Ya flatter me, Miss.” The grin he flashes your way sends blood rushing to your face, your cheeks turning a shade awful similar to the pink sky behind you.

Arthur never thought himself to be a particularly charming man, quite the opposite actually. A dirty, dangerous, entirely un-appealing brute. Of course if he ever told you that your first instinct would be to inquire if he was blind.

Either way, a sort of boyish pride fills him at the response he seems to be able to draw from you so very easily. It’s a careful line he’s treading in his own mind. A balancing act to keep this what it’s been thus far. A logistical partnership, with maybe—definitely—some flirting along the way. Just for fun, though. Nothing more, no feelings, nothing that’ll keep him up at night.

Arthur opts to ignore that the latter stopped being true a while ago.

As you bid him your goodbyes and set off to your horse, there’s a moment where he isn’t quite sure he even finishes thinking about what he’s going to say before it comes out of his mouth. Just pure instinct to make this moment last longer.

“Let me take you home.” He offers, watching as you stop in your tracks, turning around with an expression caught between looking pleased and shocked.

As he awaits your answer, he’s already thinking up an excuse in his mind for his actions. Some way to write them off as nonchalant. Chivalry is what he settles upon this time. Not a desire to be around you rather than heading back to camp just to think of you instead. No, of course not that.

Chivalry. It’s getting dark, and while he knows you can defend yourself, you won’t have to if he’s there. Mostly because he’s a deterrent to dumb bastards trying to start a fight. Once they see him, they know they’ll lose. Although, if they do try, you certainly won’t have to be the one taking care of them.

Yes, that’s the reason. Nothing more, nothing less.

“I’d like that.” Your voice is soft as you answer. Arthur tries to push down the smile that threatens to creep onto his face at your response. Still, he can’t quite help the way the corner of his mouth quirks upward as he walks towards you.

It’s nothing more.

Chills run up from his arm as he helps you onto your horse, your hand so soft, so light in his own.

It’s nothing more.

As he looks up at you on your horse, the sun’s last dying beams seem to frame you, the kind of scene he’d stop to put down in pencil if it weren’t fading so fast. Memory will have to do, for this one.

It’s nothing more.

That ringing reminder grows quieter with each repetition, his ability to believe it dwindling along the way. As he rides back with you it’s silent for the most part, only the huffs from your horses and the sound of their hoofs hitting the ground filling the air. His eyes are keen, scanning your surroundings with a seemingly unrelenting fervor.

It makes sense for a man whose spent his entire life running from somebody. Or something. Nowadays it just feels like he’s in a losing race with the world, watching as the age of outlaws gets stamped out of existence little by little. His head snaps back to you as your voice breaks through the silence.

“So, how’d you end up here? Already one notorious gang in Valentine.” You ask, the mere suggestion of O’Driscoll’s fueling an anger in him from a feud that never was his own. Only adopted out of loyalty, or obligation. For Arthur, those two have always been of the same blood.

It takes a moment before he fully registers what you said, or more accurately, what you know. If he recalls correctly, which he knows he does, he never mentioned the Van Der Linde gang to you. Suspicion, the tiniest inkling of it, trickles in. “You know about the gang?” He asks cautiously, his voice a little lower.

Much to his surprise, laughter bubbles up from your chest as you respond. “I’ve seen the posters, Arthur. You’ve made no small name for yourself.” another bought of laughter leaves you as you add on. “Wonder what you did to earn your bounty.” A hint of shame stings in his mind at how fast he was to distrust you And how stupid he was to think you really had no idea who he was.

He chuckles lowly, the ease that comes with talking to you returning as fast as it left, only for a moment. A small reminder of the kill or be killed mentality most in his line of work still carry. That you even knowing some information about him felt, temporarily, like a threat. Yet, when he looks at you, the way your soft smile reaches your eyes as you wait for his response.

God, he’s a fool for even considering it.

Words return to him as he snaps out of his thoughts. “Wasn’t exactly one thing.” He answers, a twinge of sadness sinks in as he sees you start to steer your horse near a small house, the end of the night upon the two of you as you dismount. The light laughter that he always seems to bring about returns yet again, the sound making heat rise to his cheeks that he hasn’t felt since he was a teen.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve got a slew of stories.” You comment, trying to drag the moment out as long as you can as you dismount, climbing the stairs to your door with Arthur close behind. As you turn around to face him he stops at the top step, not daring to set foot on the porch. Because both of you know you could open that door, invite him in for a meal. And a meal would turn into staying the night, and that night would only end in one place. And both of you know you’re considering it, parts of you you’re not willing to confess yet wanting it.

It would be so easy.

And yet he steps away, away from that hand that almost reached out of him, the lips that almost beckoned him in. His voice is a little strained as he replies with a tip of his hat. “Guess you’ll have to hear them another time, darlin’.” Disappointment fills you for a moment despite the regret you know you would have felt in the morning. Because if nothing else, you don’t want to become just another hazy, rushed night, kept only in bittersweet memories.

You want this to last. And in a way, he just told you in will.

“another time”

That’s what he’d said. Meaning that you would see him again. Meaning that he hadn’t tired of you yet. Meaning you weren’t completely deluded to think he might really like you.

You whisper your goodbyes, a sigh rushing through your lips as you shut the door behind you. Before you know it you’re reaching for the window, peeling back your curtain to watch him ride away until he becomes a small blip in the distance.

As for Arthur, the smile that appeared on his lips when he noticed your watchful eyes trailing after him doesn’t fade until he’s back to camp.

- di <3

A/N: I NEED HIM

#fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic writer #fanfiction writer #arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #self insert #self insert fanfic #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x y/n #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x reader #fluff #mutual pining #rdr #rdr2 fanfic

[di-writes-stuff]

if i cant experience it i write it

if I don’t ever meet a cowboy who calls me darlin’ and tenderly puts his hat on my head and offers a respectful hand to help me onto his horse then what the fuck even is the point of it all

#sobbing

[di-writes-stuff]

humanity can be pretty beautiful through the right lens.

“imagine caring so much about fiction” imagine being so lame that you scoff at the timeless human practice of falling in love with art and stories

[di-writes-stuff]

Cowboy Like Me

Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader

Chapter 3

TW: Mentions of weapons, descriptions of robbery, sh0ts fired, one d€ath, LOTS of sexual tension, not much.

A/N: Sorry it took me a while to get to this chapter, call of duty brain rot is no joke.

You’d never thought of yourself as being terribly impatient. Not that you don’t have your vices, no, you’ve got plenty of those. But impatient?

It seems only one man conjures that up in you.

If you were being reasonable, which isn’t something you’re particularly adept at once anxiety sets in, you would acknowledge that you got here early, and you are not in fact being stood up by Arthur Morgan.

You would also remember that this is a robbery you’re waiting on, not some kind of date. Still, the way you got all dressed up this morning had a little more reason behind it than just blending in. You can’t quite remember the last time you wore a dress this nice, or this tight, for that matter.

The only sound around is the breeze rustling the leaves, even the familiar sound of your horse huffing absent. You’d left him a little ways away, ready to aid you in your escape once the time comes.

Normally this would be relaxing. The warm sun shining down on you, the soft wind sifting through your hair. Still, it’s accompanied by the ever present risk of being caught in the midst of your crime. The other concern plaguing your mind quickly dissipates like fog in the sun at the sound of heavy footsteps behind you.

He came. Just like the time before. And just like the time before, you feel that familiar sickly sweet shock at the fact.

He came.

Despite hardly knowing you. Despite how easy it would have been for him to get on an earlier stop of the train, rob it himself, and make like a bat out of hell with the whole payout. He came. You quickly stand at the sight of him. He’s the same as always, just as rough and grizzly as the times before. Still, you can’t help the way your breath hitches in your throat as he removes his hat, running a calloused hand through his unkempt hair.

“Arthur.” His name falls from your mouth simply, natural as the rising and setting of the sun.

“Ma’am” His voice is low as he greets you, the slight smile on his face shining through to his cadence. Such chivalry for who you are to him. His partner in crime for today. You don’t let yourself imagine what it’d be like to be more.

Not too much, at least.

For a moment, though, you could let yourself forget. That you are a thief, a mirror to the man in front of you. An outlaw. A fox chased by hunters. You could pretend that having a normal life one day is an option for you. That you haven’t destroyed any opportunity you might have had to settle down by getting your face plastered on the side of every sheriff’s office west of Blackwater.

You could, and for a moment it would feel so very sweet, so normal, so similar to what you could have had if the cards didn’t fall the way they have. Although, it would only end in pain, and you’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.

Still, the moment is nice, the weather is fair, the man in front of you is handsome, and you are just a woman waiting on a train. The reason why is whisked away with the wind for only a second before the sharp chime of the train’s bell sounds, signaling it’s arrival to the station. And the beginning of your job.

………………………….………………………………………………………….

For Arthur, the blending in was always the hard part. Robbing somebody with a mask and gun comes easy to him after so many years of experience. But acting all innocent beforehand, like he’s not the only one that’ll leave this train with his pockets full? He’s a thief, but an honest one, deception isn’t his forte.

But it becomes a little easier with your hand in his distracting him. Every plan you’d both so carefully constructed fades to the background, pushed away with the cheshire cat grin you throw over your shoulder at him. It’s like a dare, or a challenge, to what he’s not quite sure.

Maybe to prove himself to you, a feat he’s found himself reaching for more and more despite the way he swears to himself this is simply a job, and you are simply his partner.

Although, he’s starting to think it’s more about him maintaining his composure, something that’s becoming increasingly more difficult as your figure leads him through the train to a seat near the back, your thumb rubbing back and forth softly on his hand. The kind of affection he’s never felt, not well, not really.

Sure, it’s been mimicked by different women on different nights. Ones who say and do the right things, and then walk away from the whole endeavor with a well earned wad of cash from a night’s work. But he’s never experienced it truly enough to know to want it. Only walked through the motions.

Although, if this is a taste of it, he’s beginning to find it addicting, just the same as a good cigarette or bottle of whiskey.

The sound of your voice breaks through Arthur’s wall of thoughts as he sits down next to you in the booth, your voice soft despite your intentions. You’d noticed the way he tensed up at your every touch, his eyes trailing after you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

Of course you’d noticed. You’d been looking for it, after all.

“Do I make you nervous, Arthur?” There’s a smirk on your face as his eyes slowly drag up to meet yours, smoke from the cigarette hanging from Arthur’s lips swirling between your faces, shrouding his own like a frame.

You can’t ignore the way your heart rate spikes as he answers, his eyes boring into your own. “I’d be a blind man if ya didn’t.” Any hopes you had of flustering him are gone in an instant at his response. His voice is low, his southern accent coming through just enough to elongate every word he says. The lazy tone it brings makes you wonder how he’d sound in the mornings, voice even more gravely from sleep.

It takes a moment before you recover from the way his simple answer rendered you dumb, helpless to do anything but stare into his eyes and try to say something that sounds charming.

God, it’s been a while since you cared to impress a man. Even longer yet since a man has managed to actually make you nervous. You’d started to forget how good it feels.

“You’re very kind, Mr. Morgan.” You whisper your response as your eyes stay locked with his, the train starting to move unnoticed to the both of you.

He smiles, looking down for only a moment before becoming trapped in your gaze again, a fly in a web. “I try.” You try to hide the disbelief on your face, but the crook of your eyebrow manages to stir up a grumbly laugh from his chest.

It’s only fair, considering this is the man who makes his living by robbing and killing. “That right?” You question lightly, the smile on your face no longer a forced byproduct of your teasing. No, you’re really, truly enjoying yourself. Being the woman from earlier who actually was just waiting on a train.

He shakes his head with a chuckle before looking back up at you, a new seriousness to his response, one that sends your stomach fluttering like a giggling school girl. “No…but I’ve got my exceptions.” He may not say it out loud, but the insinuation is there.

He’ll play the part of a gentlemen, for you. And although you enjoy it, a deep, maybe even animalistic part of you craves to see the Arthur Morgan who holds a gun and mighty fist. A new well of anticipation builds up in your stomach for what’s to come.

Maybe it’s just because it’s such a show of strength, demanding what he wants knowing damn well he’ll get it. Maybe it’s just because it’s him.

Maybe it’s wrong.

Either way, you can’t find it in yourself to care. You gave up morality a long time ago anyway.

As the train gets far enough away from the station, Arthur begins to slip a couple bandanas out of his pocket, one for each of you. And of course, the weapons. Arthur having guns on his hips didn’t strike anybody as odd, especially since the poor, naive fools didn’t know one was for you.

Slowly, carefully, his hand pulls from yours, cold air hitting where he’d warmed your skin. You’re mesmerized as you watch him, his hand gliding up to his belt, pulling one of the guns from it’s holster, sly as a fox as he bends down, supposedly to scratch his leg.

But no, his hand slowly, achingly so, slides up your dress, placing the gun right on your thigh, the cold metal meeting your skin making a brief hiss slip from your mouth.

It’s necessary, to hide it until the time is right. But God, it’s dirty. His eyes don’t leave yours the whole time, and yours don’t leave his hand, even as it disappears under the fabric of your dress. The look in both your eyes is the same, want.

Desperate, filthy, the kind all women are taught not to feel. The kind they all do, and the ones who kneel shun themselves for it.

But you’ve never been one to bend, and so you embrace it. The knots it works your stomach into. The way it sends your heart racing like the thundering of a stampede of hoofs. The heat that seems to fill your whole body from one simple action, and one man. There’s a hint of danger to the way he makes you feel, the knowledge that you could slip off the edge anytime.

That he could push you to the edge.

You’re starting to think you might like that.

The sound you make is just a little too loud, not that he doesn’t like to hear it. His voice comes out as a low warning. “Easy, darlin.’” And at that, you think you might just die.

Darling.

It’s should seem chivalrous, but with the way he says it, it’s anything but. The fact that you’re this worked up over a man you’ve known a handful of days should be embarrassing. Humiliating, even. But how can you blame yourself when it’s him?

Eventually he slides out of his seat slowly, you close after him, but only after retrieving the gun from under your dress. The feeling of your own hand, soft, slender, it can’t compare to Arthur’s. Not in the slightest.

The world seems to slow in the moments before the robbery begins, both of you tying your masks around your faces and brandishing your weapons. Arthur’s voice breaks the blur, loud, his accent rough like hot desert sands.

And because Arthur has never been a man of dramatics, there is no fanciful announcement. No flourish or flair. It’s ugly work, and he pulls no tricks to make it seem otherwise. An admirable trait to you, although you think others might not be able to see it as such. More brutality than honesty to the eyes of society. To the righteous, or those who like to see themselves as such.

The robbery goes by quick, cart to cart, booth to booth, and the same look in everybody’s eyes, a perfect mixture of terror and disgust. Arthur never falters, not even for a second. All the victims are adults, and they’re all rich, so he doesn’t see much need for sympathy.

Still, he treats the women with a certain softness, if you could even call it that, compared to the men. His voice not quite so loud as he ushers strings of pearls and diamond rings into his sack with praises that still somehow sound like threats along the way. “Atta girl…that’s it.” He speaks to them like spooked animals, and it takes a considerable amount of effort not to get distracted by his silken tone.

Maybe you’re the only woman sick enough to find it appealing, but you don’t see any use in being ashamed of that. Or at the very least, it can’t be any worse than the loaded barrel you have pressed to a particularly stubborn man’s head.

Well, he used to be stubborn, unwilling to yield to you. Now he’s coughing up everything he’s got, desperate pleas for his life falling from his lips.

Fucking pathetic. Just a moment ago he thought himself so strong, so different from every other person on this train for not giving it up. Truth is, that just made him the stupidest.

You and Arthur are nearing the front of the train when a familiar, sharp trill cuts through the air, like a crack of lightning, although a gavel might be more accurate in this case.

Deputies are surrounding the train before you can even fully register the sound of their whistles, signaling to one another where the two of you are. A strong hand grasps yours, dragging you off the train and out into the sun.

And right in front of a saddled deputy. He’s dead before he can lift his own weapon, Arthur’s gun smoking next to his hip. Turns out the posters weren’t being dramatic when they called him dangerous. Soon enough whistles of your own fill the air, and your horses come quick, skidding to a stop in front of the both of you, bullets whizzing by making them snort, prodding the ground with their hoofs nervously.

You both mount your steeds, setting them off running like bats out of hell. Leaving the deputies to chase after you, guns a blazing as bullets are dodged by swift movements from the horse under you. Bullets of your own fly behind you, although you’re far enough away by now that it’s more to scare them than hit them.

Not that you wouldn’t if you could.

You risk to look to your right, peel your eyes away from your pursuers for a moment to watch Arthur. Arthur, who looks like a work of art, wind whipping through his hair, both hands preoccupied with firing his rifle, only experience on the run keeping him sat on his horse.

He’s impressive, daunting, enticing in the most dangerous way. You won’t yet admit the sort of primal attraction you feel for him. The need to be closer, just a little bit closer every time you see him.

But you feel it, oh…you feel it.

The cracks of guns firing begin to die down as you and Arthur crest a hill, disappearing onto the other side and out of the view of the police. You both get off your horses quickly, a swift smack to their rumps sending both of them running off wildly. They’ll find their way back to you, but for now it’s safer if you’re on foot. Less noticeable that way.

The sun is beginning to go down, vivid splashes of pink and orange tinting the sky, a soft warm glow washing over you and Arthur, the quickly approaching darkness aiding in your escape into the trees.

For a moment it’s silent save for heaving breaths from the both of you, adrenaline still coursing through your veins from the escape. After a moment Arthur looks to you, speaking only after giving himself a moment to look you up and down.

“You lose anything?” His voice is a low whisper, meeting your ears soft and rough all at the same time. You roll your eyes at the suggestion before lifting your sack, still as full as ever with your take.

“Doubting me?” A small tsk tsk sound slips through your lips that makes Arthur smirk. “I’m insulted, Morgan.”

He shakes his head, not quite used to a woman like you. Confident, endlessly teasing, witty. He likes it, of course, but it takes a hell of a lot more thinking to talk to you than most his fellow gang members. Although, he’s starting to learn how to get to you.

That same smooth, husky voice hits you, causing you to draw an uneven breath through your nose. “Guess I’ll have to make up for it someday, hm?” The devilish grin that finds purchase on his lips is a clear indicator that he noticed your reaction, and he liked it.

He’s finding he likes most things you do.

“I’ll look forward to it.” Your answer is soft spoken, nervous under his unyielding gaze. He provides a nod and low laugh in response, along with one word that he practically growls out.

“Good.” Your eyes dart away at this, the promise he’s seeming to make sending chills through your whole body. Arthur Morgan, you’ve noticed, has a way of making you feel like a woman. Not a thief or a threat, just a woman. Makes you feel pretty, makes you feel wanted, makes you feel want.

It’s more than seduction, you’re beginning to think. There’s a certain respect in the way he looks at you, a knowledge that he considers you his equal even as he watches you squirm under his whispered words. In his eyes, you’re a person, one he wants to know, to discover, not just an outlet for every fantasy that keeps him awake at night.

It’s funny, considering the context you know him in, but he’s a gentleman. Not in the traditional sense, of course, but through small things. Like the way he’d been sure you were on your horse before even reaching for his own when the deputies swarmed. When he’d stayed back on the chase so it’d be easier to aim at him than you.

He’s selfless, in a way. He wouldn’t believe it if you said it, and most wouldn’t think it if they knew him. But he is. Doesn’t make him perfect, he’s far from it. Although you think that’s why you’ve begun to like him so much. He’s marred, immoral in a dozen different ways, but he doesn’t try to hide it. He doesn’t cower under the piercing eye of society. Arthur is brutally honest about who he is, and it’s only working to pull you in further.

……………………………………………………………………………………..

The rest of your journey is silent before you find your way to a cabin, seemingly abandoned. Mold grows on every wall, and the roof is dilapidated for the most part, letting the moon shine in through the holes. The night is still hot, the fire Arthur built for light making it hotter still. Red tinged light dances along your body, hypnotizing him as it shines off the sheen of sweat on your skin.

Staying here for the rest of the night is wisest, if either of you are found tonight, the parts of your faces that weren’t covered will be fresh in the minds of deputies. Besides, Arthur can think of worse ways to spend an evening than sitting across from you at a fire, the whiskey he kept in his satchel burning down his throat.

He sees the way you eye it and he hands it over wordlessly, watching as your lips wrap around the bottle, the amber liquid falling into your mouth like a sip of straight fire. Exhaustion is finally settling in now that adrenaline has fully worn off, your eyelids drooping. The liquor doesn’t help, only adding to your inability to stay fully awake.

Arthur’s voice is softer than usual as he speaks, not wanting to startle you as he moves over to take the bottle from your hand gently. “Get some sleep, sugar.” The pet name causes a drowsy smile to play on your lips, your response coming out in series of mumbles.

“What ‘bout you?” you whisper groggily, causing a small laugh to bubble up from Arthur’s chest. “I will too, nobody’s gonna find us out here.” A contented hum rises up from you, and it’s the last noise you make for the night as you drift off to sleep. After a while it’s clear that Arthur isn’t quite as honest as you thought he was, seeing as what he told you was a blatant lie.

He didn’t sleep a wink the whole night, keeping a careful eye on you until the sun rose in the morning.

A/N: y’all this almost turned into inappropriate use of a w€apon for a second if you know what I mean.

i hope you enjoyed despite how long he this is. Thank you to anybody that read the whole thing.

- di <3

#fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic writer #fanfiction writer #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 arthur #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x y/n #self insert fanfiction #self insert

[di-writes-stuff]

the worst part is writing something for days and days and days and you feel so bad because it’s taking so long just to get the damn words on a page and it should be easier but it’s not and damn capitalism.

I have not written in days 🙃

Which is fine I guess. I wrote the entirety of November. I wrote 3/4 of a book!

My brain is just tired. It doesn’t mean I’m useless. Right? I’m trying to remind myself that it’s okay to just exist even if I have nothing to offer right now.

It’s hard though. Why is that always hard to convince myself of it? Because I don’t think that way about anyone else. I blame capitalism, somehow.

#fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic writer #fanfiction writer #writing #writer

[di-writes-stuff]

this writing block will NOT. LET. UP.

“How’s your WIP going?”

"Have you made any progress?”

“How close are you to being done?”

[di-writes-stuff]

Sad Beautiful Tragic

Phillip Graves x Reader

A/N: I need to write more angst in a way I can’t quite describe.

TW: References to Graves betrayal and all that entails. War stuff, canon typical violence, suggestions of smut but no real descriptions. No happy end.

Summary: In which you look back on your relationship with Graves during his court hearing.

“Hang up, give up, and for the life of us we can’t get up.”

I hate him.

You’ve been forcing yourself to remember that for the past few hours. Watching that damn bastard, the sly smirk on his face every time he knows he’s winning the case. The same one you used to find endearing, now just puts a pit in your stomach that makes you wish you hadn’t eaten breakfast this morning.

You could scream. You want to scream, about how it’s not fair, about how you could’ve loved him, how you did love him. You want to pound your fists against the ground, throw the cup clenched in your hand at his stupid, handsome face. Marr it until you don’t feel that nagging, instinctive affection every time you see him.

The one that quickly fades—for the most part—when you remember what he did. That he prioritized being Shepherd’s little bitch over his comrades.

Over you.

Anger’s powerful. It’s a great, if not the greatest motivator in the world. But coupled with passion? With a love so fierce you would have died for it?

That burns. Drips through you like hot acid at any reminder of betrayal from the trusted.

And that is exactly what you feel when you look at him. The hurt comes first. The shell shock from what he did that still hasn’t quiet faded. Then the anger, and then the melancholy. The kind of animalistic need to get back to how it was before he ruined it. The clawing, desperate kind of fight you’re waging everyday just to believe the lie you think yourself to sleep with.

I hate him.

And yet, it always seems to end the same. The glaring correction at the end that you can’t admit to anybody around you, or yourself.

I miss him.

Overwhelmingly. Painfully. It keeps you up at night. It exhausts you in the day. It separates you from every other member of the task force. Because they can do it. They can hate him for what he did without a second thought.

It’s not as if they don’t see it. The tears that pinprick the corners of your eyes every time his name comes up. It really shouldn’t come as a surprise. From the very start, he’d been chasing you, and you were standing still.

For what felt like the hundredth time today, you were laughing. Smiling. Happy, really, truly happy. All thanks to Phillip Graves.

From what everybody said, you’d really hadn’t thought you’d like him very much. Cocky, horribly flirtatious, stubborn, and risky as all hell. All true, of course. Although, from where you were standing, it seemed like the whole “flirt” part was understated, extremely.

A smirk played on his lips as he stood just too close to you at the control panel of the helicopter, breath fanning over your neck as you drop yet another bomb onto the currently empty base. The mission was simple enough, bomb the enemy base, wipe all their supplies, intel, everything. Without anybody around to retaliate.

Well, it was supposed to be simple. You’ve found focusing has become quite difficult with constant flirtatious praises falling from the lips of the man behind you. “Atta girl.” His voice is husky behind you, a soft chuckle leaving him as you exhale shakily at his comment.

You’re sure you’ll get plenty of shit for this back at base, after all, you aren’t trying very hard to disguise how much you’re enjoying this. At the very least you manage to respond to this comment rather than the breathy laughter he’s been receiving. “You wanna take over? I wouldn’t wanna take all the credit.” You force yourself to meet his eyes, ignoring the way your stomach flips when he smiles at you.

“I think I’ll let ya have this one, doll.” The pet-name sends you snapping your eyes back to the control panel, trying to calm the vivid blush spreading across your face. The self satisfied smirk on his face only growing wider at your response. You clear your throat, your words coming out a bit shaky. “Very generous, Commander.”

He leans in a bit closer, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear. “Oh, I always am.” The suggestion held in those words sends heat pooling in your stomach, the skin he barely even grazed burning after his touch. Later, he’ll give some proof to that statement.

And God, he was telling the truth.

Your attention is suddenly brought back to the court in front of you, and you’re back in reality. Snatched away from the pretty memory you’d allowed yourself to live in for just a moment. From before he did what he did. Before he ruined everything.

The judges question sends a hush over the room, the one everybody had been waiting to hear Phillip’s answer to. “Did you act on those orders, Mr. Graves?”

Your breath hitches in your throat as you remember that night. Those orders, the ones to kill you and every other member of the 141. The warnings he’d tried so hard to give you, without ever really telling you the truth. Phillip Graves was not the pleading kind, but for you? He’d do it. He did do it.

“Please, baby, I’m begging you. Don’t do this job.” He asked for what felt like the millionth time, trying to keep quiet as to not be heard through the thin walls on base.

When he’d asked to come over, you’d thought it was for the normal reasons. Apparently not, because rather than tangled under bedsheets, you two were fighting over his strange request that you didn’t understand in the slightest.

“Phillip, I have a job, I’m gonna do it.” Your voice is stern, unyielding to his pleas. You can’t help but feel unnerved by the look in his eyes that looks an awful lot like terror. Pure, unbridled fear that he refuses to explain to you.

He takes your hands in his, kneeling down to be eye level with you as you sit on the edge of your bed. His eyes are bloodshot, supposedly from crying. Something you’d never seen the man in front of you do. “Please, sweetheart.”

“I can’t have you on this job.”

Except you were on that job. There to see the horror in his eyes as he realized that along with everybody else, he’d have to betray you too. That he’s have to ruin everything you had.

You still remember the way you’d screamed at him that night, as Ghost dragged you away into the temporary safety the city provided.

“I hate you.”

The words that were ripped from your throat by him, the ones you never wanted to say, but you did. The ones you couldn’t convince yourself of anymore. You’re not even sure if they were true then. Although, you think you come close to it as you hear him answer the judge.

“No…Absolutely not, sir.” Gasps and whispers sound throughout the court, but the only thing you hear is his words repeated over and over in your mind. You try to find the lie, to find some loophole to make his claim false.

But the worst part is, he’s telling the truth. He didn’t kill you, nobody in the 141 was dead, or even seriously injured. Soap walked away with a few new scars, but that was about it.

He didn’t act on the orders.

It should make you feel better, that technically, he refused. That maybe, you could forgive him. But you know you won’t. You know you can’t. Not after all this. Not after the things he made you feel in such rapid succession.

First, love. Burning hot passion that took over your every thought. Then hatred, feigned or otherwise. Then grief as Soap came back with the news that Graves was KIA. Everybody still remembers the way you’d sobbed, animalistic gasps for air coming up from your throat as tears poured from your eyes. They’d heard it all from the closet you locked yourself in. But at the very least they’d had the decency to pretend they didn’t.

Now, you don’t even know what you feel towards him. You can’t exactly say you don’t still love him. Not honestly, at least. A part of you hates him, but not enough to make it true. Not enough to deny the relief that flooded you once you saw him in front of you that day, breathing, whole, alive.

It took every bit of strength in you not to react as he walked into view on the call with Shepherd. That same smirk on his face that never seemed to leave fully, but faltered a bit as his eyes landed on you. You, who stood seemingly emotionless, you who prayed he couldn’t see the tears forming in your eyes over the call.

You, who couldn’t take it anymore as he cracked the same kinds of jokes that used to make you laugh as he whispered them to you in the middle of the night, your head laying on his chest. Everybody noticed the way his smile dropped for a second as you stormed out of the hangar. Because despite his own ego, despite his constant need to please, the only approval he ever wanted was your own.

It’s the same reason now that he risks turning around to look at you, to see if any hint of approval, or even love still lingers in your eyes.

The same reason his heart shatters as he sees what he’s been dreading this whole time. Hatred, written all over your face as you stare him down. Of course, he’s oblivious to the war being waged inside you just to keep your expression still. To the way his eyes locking with yours still sends shivers running down your spine. Memories flooding back of his hands on your body, his eyes locked with yours as hushed, strained whispers fall from his mouth in between groans.

You don’t even think he realized he’d said it that night, too focused on the feeling you gave him to even notice the words he was saying. It wouldn’t be outlandish to think he hadn’t meant it. To think it just slipped out in the midst of his euphoria, triggered only by the high you were both so rapidly approaching.

Although, now that memories are all you’ll ever allow yourself to have of him, you like to believe he meant it. That deep down, those whispered words were true, unlike the ones you’ve been trying to convince yourself of.

“I love you.”

A/N: Sometimes I’m writing and it’s just like lalalala silly little angsty fanfic 😇✍️ and then all of a sudden this deep, grumbly little demon voice pops up out of nowhere, a single word accompanying it.

👹dick👹

digital footprint goes wild.

- di <3

#fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic writer #fanfiction writer #call of duty #cod #call of duty mw2 #call of duty mw3 #cod fanfic #cod mw #modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #phillip graves #phillip graves x reader #phillip graves x you #phillip graves x y/n #commander graves #call of duty fanfic #call of duty modern warfare

[di-writes-stuff]

You Are In Love

John Price x Reader

One Shot

TW: Mentions of weapons, bl00d, injuries.

Three instances in which John realizes he’s in love with you. Thank Miss Swift for this one.

“You can hear it in the silence.”

You wince as John lifts up your shirt, blood crusted onto your skin around the wound on your abdomen. Attempts at convincing him you didn’t need him to patch you up himself were quickly ignored by him with a small hush and gentle hands leading you to the chair you’re sitting on now.

Exhaustion was evident on both your faces, drooping eyelids and all. No words are exchanged as a rag wet with warm water is pressed to your wound, cleaning the blood around where the knife broke skin. A small hiss slips through your lips at the sting of water meeting the wound. It’d stopped bleeding quiet so much after the stitches you got in the field, but small gaps still allowed water to slip through.

John mutters out his apologies, but it sounds more like a grumble. Any thoughts of making conversation are quickly abandoned, fatigue stripping both of your abilities to form coherent sentences.

It doesn’t seem to matter much as he presses a bandage to the wound, gentle hands and concerned glances at any noise you make saying everything they need to.

The mission was awful. Sure, you came out successful, but God was it grueling. The kind John doubted everybody would come out from alive.

They did, by some miracle.

Still, he can’t seem to shake the panic that coursed through his veins when he saw you go down after the stab. That moment before you got back up, before he reached you, it was the slowest of his life. The only thought coursing through his mind that the moment he’d been fighting tooth and nail to avoid was finally coming.

That you weren’t gonna be by his side on the ride back to base.

That you wouldn’t greet him in the morning with that smile that turns any coherent thought in his brain to mush.

That he wouldn’t have you anymore.

Thoughts of all the things that could have happened run through his mind as he wraps gauze around your waist, the sudden shakiness of his hands going unnoticed to him.

The only thing he can seem to focus on is that the second he wasn’t by your side, this happened. And if you hadn’t gotten treated as soon as you did, if John hadn’t dropped everything and dragged you to medical waiting on the EVAC boat, he wouldn’t be watching the slow rise and fall of your chest now.

He’s snapped out of his slow spiral as your hand settles on his, stilling the tremors running through it. Dulled blue eyes slide up to meet yours, softening as you squeeze his hand softly.

A reminder. A fact in the ocean of worries, of possibilities in his head.

You’re alive.

You’re alive.

You’re alive.

He finds himself repeating it like a mantra in his mind. A reason might be more accurate. If you’re here, he can be too. If you’re alive, he has a reason to keep going. It’s terrifying for a moment. To think that you’ve become the very thing his world orbits around.

And then, it just feels natural. Right, that the cards have fallen the way they did. John was never a man who believed in fate, in something determining the direction of his life. He was in control, he was the captain steering his own ship.

It sounded like bullshit now as he looked up at you. You, who fit him like a glove. You, who seemed too perfect to be here by happenstance. You, who had him wrapped around your finger. A blessing, maybe, in a life void of them.

He finishes quickly, managing to do the rest of the work with one hand. He can’t bring himself to pull the other away from your soft hold. Muscles ache as he stands, your eyes following his every movement.

Slowly, he leans forward, pressing a chaste kiss to the side of your head, the tiniest of smiles on his face as he feels you lean into his touch. Later John will find that he can’t decipher if that was a moment of weakness or humanity.

Although, he’s beginning to think they may be one and the same.

But, the only thing he can’t bring himself to feel about it is regret.

“You can feel it on the way home.”

The mission had been easy. Just gathering some intel from a friend in London.

So, it seemed a bit odd when John had you come with him. You weren’t complaining, of course. Any opportunity to spend time with him away from prying eyes cracking jokes about how close you seem to be was welcome.

Cold air bites at the both of you as you step outside of the building, snow falling onto the cobblestone streets. It’s almost too picturesque, street lamps glowing softly, providing just enough light for you to see on the walk back to the car.

Shivers run through your body, cold seeping through the jacket your wearing. John quickly starts to take off his sweater before you stop him with a gentle hand on his arm.

“I’m fine, John.” You assure him, your voices the only sounds besides the wind whistling in your ears.

He sighs, tugging his sweater back on, knowing you wouldn’t take it either way. “You’re shaking.” He comments, voice softer than usual. The gruffness that almost always accompanies his tone has vanished, the only thing coming through clearly is affection.

You merely smile, shaking your head and looking down at your feet. His blatant concern leaves you feeling like a giddy teenager, blushing softly under the glow of moonlight.

John shoves down the nerves coursing through his body as he steps closer, an apprehensive arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer to the warmth radiating from his body.

Relief floods his body as you look up at him, a soft smile ghosting your lips reflected on his. And with his arm wrapped around your waist, with your head resting on his shoulder, it’d be so easy for him to imagine for a moment that you and him are normal people.

That rather than an intel grab, he’s walking you back from a date. That rather than a base, he’s taking you home. That rather than a fleeting moment, this could just be his life, day in, and day out.

But of course, reality sets in sooner or later. That this is just a taste of a life he can never have with you, and one he’d never want with anybody else.

Still, the city does look awfully pretty like this, snow glittering like thousands of tiny diamonds under the amber glow of the gas lamps, no cars or people to disrupt. Just you, and him. Holding onto each other like it’s the last chance you’ll ever get.

With your jobs, it just might be.

Steps slow as both of you realize you’re getting closer to the car, and the eventual end of a night that feels so blissfully normal. You take the time to lean over the edge of the small bridge you’re crossing, watching the moonlight glint off the thin layer of ice covering the water underneath. John’s arm eventually slips away from your waist, only for his hand to land atop of yours on the railing.

Your eyes are focused on the sight before you, snow falling steadily, little pieces landing on your eyelashes.

John’s gaze doesn’t leave you the whole time, a love sick smile on his face that only you seem to be able to conjure up. Slowly you lean up, your eyes meeting his, and in that moment he knows he’s done for, for tonight at least.

He can’t exactly tell who started it, but he supposes it doesn’t matter now. It was soft, at first, lips barely brushing. Then, it wasn’t. Then it was everything he’d been holding back, everything he’d been trying so hard to pretend wasn’t real for so long.

Later the both of you will act as if it didn’t happen, and for the longest time it won’t again. It will go back to longing looks, hands brushing in hallways, and the adamant refusals to admit that you could be anything more than close friends.

But for now, the snow is falling, you’re in his arms, and John has everything he needs.

“You can see it with the lights out.”

It wasn’t unusual for 141 to head to the pub after a job well done. The mission wasn’t too hard, but you all came back with your fair share of cuts and bruises from some rough terrain. Gaz and Soap were already putting their new scars to work with the ladies.

The stories they told were exaggerated, of course. Gaz apparently had been grazed by a machine gun bullet.

A rusty gate tore through his shirt and nicked his arm.

In Soap’s story he went toe to toe with death, the deep purple bruise and cut on his eyebrow coming from an explosion.

He fell off a rocky hill and ate shit on a boulder.

Either way, John wasn’t paying them much mind, you serving as a distraction from their antics. The bars lighting is even dimmer than usual, a couple bulbs having gone out.

The bartender won’t notice until the pub closes. John wishes he could see your face better at first, but when liquor leads to drunken flirting, he’ll be grateful you can’t see the light blush dusting his face.

As you return from the restroom you find John watching the soccer game playing on the small TV. Reclaiming your spot next to him, your voice sounds next to his ear, any interest in the game vanishing at your return.

“Who’s winning the soccer game?” It’s become a running gag between you. At first it actually did annoy him, but at this point he just pretends to get wound up.

Really, he just likes to see the humored smile on your face when he grumbles out his response. “It’s football, love.” He responds, chest filling with boyish pride when you blush at the pet-name. He can hardly make it out under the cover of darkness, but the way you duck your head away is as clear a sign as anything of his affect on you.

He’d tried to be professional at first, but it didn’t last long. You were intoxicating like nothing else. Your laughter, your spirit, everything about you sent him falling faster than he could try to stop it.

Ignoring it never worked, he would catch himself doing little things for you either way. Holding doors open even if he wasn’t walking that way himself. Grabbing things for you that you couldn’t reach, even though a footstool was sitting in the closet collecting dust.

He just liked the excuse to stand that close to you, even if it was just for a moment, cause the way you smiled up at him every time was enough to keep him happy for the rest of the day. Fingers would brush as he handed you whatever it was, and the look in both your eyes was far too recognizable to everybody around.

Either way, he’d given up on pretending there wasn’t something between you two. For tonight, at least.

John will tell himself later that it was an accident, that the rest of the night was the product of a coincidence. It’s not true, of course, but he doesn’t have to admit that to himself.

His hand slides across the bar top, supposedly to reach for a napkin.

He didn’t need one.

As his fingers brush yours he looks over, trying to confirm in the darkness that the smile on your face really was there.

It was.

His hand slowly wraps around yours, warmth seeping from his calloused palm. It’s so intimate despite the environment. The music suddenly seems to quiet, the air stilling, the commotion behind you slowing. As your eyes meet, bright spots in the dim lighting of the bar, everything just…fades away.

It’s just you, and him. And you are not a sergeant under his command, and he is not a captain controlling you. You’re a pretty woman, and he’s a flirtatious man, and for the night John Price gets to be human.

And for the night, John Price gets to love you openly. Because in a darkened bar full of boisterous drunks, nobody notices the two fools holding hands, whispering sweet nothings, hushed laughter bubbling up from you as yet another clever quip leaves his mouth.

For the night, John Price gets to pretend this can last beyond flirting at a bar.

#fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic writer #fanfiction writer #john price #captain john price #john price x reader #john price x you #john price x y/n #captain john price x reader #captain john price x y/n #captain john price x you #COD #call of duty #call of duty fanfic #john price call of duty #cod mw19 #cod mw2 #cod mw #cod mw3

[di-writes-stuff]

as brittany would say, i’m gnawing at the iron bars of my enclosure.

(it’s giving interrogation.)

(and i’m into it.)

#call of duty #alex keller cod #cod mw #cod mw19 #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #alex keller #he’s so hot #barking #brittany broski #broski nation #i just woofed #meow #plz just let me run my fingers through your hair

[di-writes-stuff]

Cowboy Like Me

Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader

Chapter 2

TW: Mentions of alcohol? Literally nothing, which is weird for me.

It’s of no shock that Valentine isn’t exactly a land of dazzling opportunity. It seems Mr. Mallory was about the only person worth robbing in the whole damned county, and of course that chance slipped right through Arthur’s fingers.

All thanks to you.

You wouldn’t exactly say you felt guilty. That’s not the right word. Empathy is better suited, although you’ve never been one to let a good job slide right past you. Nevertheless, there was something more driving your decision to send that letter.

You would never admit it, not openly. But something about him…you wanted to see him again. Maybe it was his looks, maybe the fact that for once, a man might understand you.

Or maybe it was how sweet he was that first day, coupled with the danger that comes with a man like him. The thrill of knowing damn well you’ve seen that face before, and only later realizing where. In the middle of a bounty poster with a reward of more money than you’ve ever even gotten close to.

Five thousand dollars on his head alone. You’d be a damned liar if you said that didn’t make him more enticing. And so, after you heard about a goldmine in the midst of the barrenness that surrounds Valentine, writing to a certain Arthur Morgan didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

After all, everybody deserves a second chance.

……………………………………………………………………………………..

Outlaws don’t typically get mail from random women, so when Miss Grimshaw let Arthur know there was a letter from a lady sitting on his cot, confusion was the first thing that sprung to mind. After he saw your name on the envelope, then came the recognition.

A poster pinned up outside the sheriff's office a couple towns back. He could have gone for your bounty, it was decent enough, but something in him told him to go with the man next to who he now knows to be you.

He’s never felt better about that decision than now as he reads your swirling handwriting.

Dear Arthur,

You don’t know me very well, and I’m not quite sure I know you at all. But, I figured if the price on your head is of any indication, your skills could be useful to me, and mine to you. See, there’s a train running through these parts this Saturday, full of all kinds of rich folk with plenty to go around. If you’re as interested in this prospect as I believe you will be, meet me on Friday morning at the Valentine saloon. I’m sure we can think of some kind of plan together.

Besides, I’m afraid I’ve been in your debt since poor old Mr. Mallory “misplaced” some valuables. I figured it was high time I repaid you for that little incident.

- Y/N

He sits on his cot like a fool for a few moments, a boyish grin on his face before the realization hits him. It’s Friday, and it’s already well past sunrise.

……………………………………………………………………………………..

For a moment you started to believe he wasn’t coming, imagined images of him throwing away your letter in confusion filling you with humiliation.

That is until the man himself walked through the doors of the saloon, although if his appearance had anything to do with it, you’d say he rushed. His hair is a little messy as he removes his black leather hat, and you can’t help but notice that the top few buttons of his shirt are undone, hair peeking out of the loose collar of his shirt.

His steps come down heavy on the creaky wooden panels of flooring as he makes his way over to you, willing his heart rate down to normal as he does.

You, on the other hand, look like a perfect picture of a civilized lady. The vest you bought with the money from oh so generous Mr. Mallory fits snugly around your waist. Enough to be attractive, but not too enticing, that wouldn’t be very lady-like, of course. Your skirt hangs off the edges of your stool, covering any bit of skin that would leave the rather judgmental citizens of Valentine scoffing and tugging their daughters away from such a bad influence.

In short, you look innocent, something you’ve mastered after years of being the exact opposite.

You also look beautiful, something Arthur notices very clearly as his eyes sweep over your waiting figure. The saloon had few windows, flickering candlelight creating shadows that seemed to dance along your face. You can’t help the smirk that creeps onto your face at the relief on his upon finding you awaiting him.

He walks over slowly enough, not too eager, although the way his fingers rap along the leather brim of his hat tell you otherwise, the the dull tapping the only sound made between the two of you as he sits on the stool beside you.

You break the silence, seeing as you’re the one who invited him here. “You came.” Is the only sentence you utter, his presence in front of you a little nerve inducing, if you’re being honest. You keep your voice at a low murmur, watching as he leans in ever closer to hear you better.

He nods slowly, and you watch his lips move as his gruff voice sounds. “I’ve learned enough not to keep a lady waiting.” The smile on your face only grows at his words as you examine every detail of him that your previous meetings were too short to notice.

His honey-colored hair is choppy, only a few tufts growing long enough to brush along his forehead. Tanned skin shows little crows feet by the corners of his eyes, ones that you assume are from years of squinting against the desert sun rather than laughter. His eyes are just as entrancing as the day you met, swirling shades of blue and green trapping you like a moth to flames. Stubble adorns the lower half of his face, the only spot untouched a little scar on his chin.

The most noticeable thing is that Arthur Morgan is handsome, distractingly so. The sleeves of his faded blue shirt are rolled up to reveal the strong build he has underneath, a sheen of sweat across his forearms.

Your eyes snap back up to his face to find a rather cocky smirk waiting for you, a clear sign that your admiration hadn’t gone unnoticed. You don’t mind too much, seeing as his didn’t either. After the pregnant pause you find your voice again, enough to respond to his little quip. “Good choice, Mr. Morgan.” You watch as shock flits across his gaze for a moment at your knowledge of his full name.

It’s a small victory, but impressing him once again fills you with a bit of pride. “Now, about that train.” You begin carefully, not wanting to abandon the small talk too forwardly.

After all, men can have such fragile little egos.

Although, it seems Arthur had been waiting for you to bring it up, his eyes lighting up at the thought of a good job. He nods, waiting for finer details than what he found in your letter.

It seems as if the train is on a scenic trip through the countryside. Giving all the stuck up rich folk from the big city what they think is a taste of western life. All from the from the safety of a train, of course. After all, what would they do if mud disgraced the bottoms of their fine, imported shoes? It couldn’t be further than the reality of living out here, but you imagine they don’t care to know what it’s really like. They never do, it’s all about if something looks nice.

For a moment you find yourself thinking they’d like the sight in front of you then, too. He’s certainly easy on the eyes, but you try not to linger on that thought too long.

You receive only nods and the occasional “mhm” as he listens, sipping a beer as he does. Once you’ve finished explaining he looks confused for a moment, and you wonder if getting him involved with this was a mistake. The question that leaves his mouth next certainly isn’t what you expected. “I’ve seen you work. You’re good, so why do you think ya need me on this?” He asks, his southern drawl hushed to avoid any gaining any listeners.

You can’t help but blush as little as you look down, a lock of hair falling in front of your face. The truth is, you don’t need him. You could do this job yourself and be out in no time. Sure, two people might get it done faster, but working with an outlaw as known as Arthur comes with it’s own slew of risks.

The truth is, you wanted to see him again. For some foolish, girlish reason, you did. Enough that the payout wasn’t the first thing you thought of upon hearing about this job.

It was him.

You clear your throat a bit, resisting the urge to look away again when you see a certain glint in his eyes. You’ve seen it before, on different men, on different days. The only difference is they were all, well, them.

Dull, cookie cutter versions of the same man over and over. No cracks in the surface, nothing to strike your interest. So dreadfully un-ordinary that they could all be clumped into the same category of men trying to be what they assumed you would be attracted to.

Perfect.

It’s not as if you know Arthur well. Some would argue you don’t know him at all. Maybe it’s foolish of you to think he’s different simply because he’s not so eager to take a step into the new world. Void of outlaws and freedom, of wild land untouched by gluttonous men who believe that it’s something to be owned, dominated.

Void of people like you and him, living with the land rather than atop it. Maybe it’s because in him, you see that fire that everybody seems to be trying so hard to extinguish.

And so, you answer honestly, because lying to him is something you’re not sure you want to do. “I don’t need you, Arthur. As shocking as this might seem, I’ve found I rather like your company.” The smile on his face is mirrored on yours quickly, brightened cerulean eyes watching you over the rim of a beer bottle.

He’s a smart man, so your answer didn’t exactly come as a shock. Still, hearing it brought a certain flush to his face he hasn’t felt in years. The sound of your voice is still just as sweet as it was the very first day when you speak again.

“So, are you in?” He smirks, a devilish kind of excitement on his face.

You know you shouldn’t, he’s trouble. It’s as clear as day. But that look sends your stomach fluttering like a teenage girl.

“Course’, miss.”

It’s a bad idea to involved with the likes of him, but you can’t seem to find your reason as a smirk grows on your face.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night. Meet me at the train station.” As you stand to leave, you can feel his eyes follow you to the door, just like the last time you met, and just like the time before that.

You can’t help but throw one last glance over your shoulder at the figure watching you, smirking as he brings the bottle up to his lips.

“Goodbye, Arthur.”

A/N: JENDHWJSGDHWGDHEBHEHD

(i love him sm)

- di <3

#fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic writer #fanfiction writer #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x y/n #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan rdr2 #rdr1 #rdr2 fandom #rdr2 arthur

[di-writes-stuff]

THIS ^^^

i feel like sometimes the world forgets writing is a talent and an art form.

we’re all impressed when someone says “i’m a singer, i draw, i dance, etc.” because those things are all very impressive. but writing is a quieter hobby, especially since it’s a very vulnerable thing to share with someone, often very revealing.

this is me reminding all writers that you are in fact special and you make just as much of an impact as other artists.

#writing #fanfic #writers #writer #fanfiction

[di-writes-stuff]

the way i’m actually barking

The Last of Us, behind the scenes

#the last of us #tlou #pedro pascal #joel miller

[di-writes-stuff]

Shrike

Alex Keller x Reader

One Shot

TW: Descriptions of panic attacks, PTSD, war, torture, death, canon typical violence, arguing, nightmares, trauma, suggested alcoholism. It’s a rough one, can’t lie. Hozier fucked me up.

“I couldn’t whisper when you needed it shouted. Ah, but I’m singing like a bird bout it now.”

You promised yourself you wouldn’t do this. Be the sad girl in the sad movie standing outside of her ex-boyfriends door because she just can’t take the distance.

Yet, here you are. The sad girl, in what feels like anything but a movie. It’s not like you wanted to leave him. You loved, no, love him more than you knew you could. So much that it felt like it gripped you by the throat and knocked the wind out of you.

It was overwhelming.

Terrifying.

Amazing.

And for the last couple months, it’s been gone. In the blink of an eye, it the snap of a finger, it disappeared.

At first you tried to ignore it. Ignore the ever present signs that something was wrong. Except you can’t anymore, not when the memories that were so clearly signs fly through your mind.

It’s happening again. It started with the whispers. You couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, but it sure as hell didn’t sound good. Then the feeling of his arm tightening around your waist as he woke up, his heart racing in his chest pressed to your back, and fast, panicked breaths leaving his nose.

You turned around quickly to see his eyes glazed over, pain so deep you could practically feel it lacing his gaze. “Alex?” You make your voice as soft as you can, but it still manages to startle him as he snaps out of what seems like a trance with a jolt.

And then, he does it. The same thing he’d continue to do again, and again, and again, until you couldn’t take it anymore. Until you couldn’t keep pretending that he was fine when he so clearly wasn’t. That smile that swept you off your damn feet the first day is thrown your way, along with a kiss to your forehead and a lie whispered in darkness.

“I’m okay, doll. Get some sleep, we can talk in the morning.”

Except you never talked. Not in the morning, and not any of the nights that followed the same pattern after. And so you ignored the way his voice shook as he willed you to let it go, and let him lie. Let him pretend he didn’t need help when he obviously did.

As the door to his apartment slides open, you can’t help the way your breath hitches in your throat.

He’s too handsome for his own good, really. His dirty blonde hair is messy from laying down. Sweats hang low on his hips, and his shirt…well, his shirt’s not there.

“Shit.” He whispers, closing the door abruptly, and you can hear a couple things fall down as he frantically searches for a shirt, praying you don’t leave. Soon enough he’s opening a door, fully clothed this time.

His shirt’s inside out.

You don’t mention it.

For a moment he tries to look casual, as if he wasn’t just getting ready to drink himself into oblivion when you knocked. Although, it’s no use. You see the bags under his eyes that have never been so dark as they are now, and the way his facial hair is grown out a bit, longer than you ever let it get before cleaning it up for him. The sweet times that bring tears to your eyes nearly every day lately.

You slap his chest as his hand wanders up your thigh for what feels like the hundredth time, a shit eating grin on his face from the way you blush. Normally you would have had this done ten minutes ago, but with the way you’re sat upon his lap, Alex doesn’t know how you expected to get anything done.

“I swear to God Alex, one more time and the mustache is coming off.” You warn, holding the razor in your hand up to his face. He just laughs in response, knowing how empty the threat is. “Oh, doll. We both know you’d miss it more than me.” his voice is lower than normal as he leans in, kissing you softly, his arms sliding underneath your thighs slowly.

You don’t even realize what he’s doing until he’s stood up, leaving the razor buzzing on the counter as he carrie’s you out of the bathroom. Both of your laughters echo through the halls as clothes fall behind you in a trail to Alex’s bed.

He clears his throat awkwardly before speaking, his voice hoarse. “What are you doing here?” His words lack the annoyance that usually comes with a question like that, confusion the only thing seeping through.

And pain.

So much pain.

That’s the one question you were hoping he wouldn’t ask. The one you don’t have an answer for. As you’d gotten dressed to leave, it didn’t even feel like you’d make a conscious decision to go back. It was like magnets clicking back together once held too close.

It was natural. Necessary, even.

Words spill from your mouth before you can think of an answer that sounds less pathetic than what you end up saying. “I miss you.” Your voice is all exhale as you speak, like letting out air held for too long.

You miss him.

Alex isn’t exactly sure how he thought you were. Certainly better off that him, considering the half empty bottle of whiskey sitting on his table. You were better than him, he’d always thought that.

So you not being able to let him go? Still being hung up on him after months? It’s unbelievable.

He thinks to respond, but no words come out, only an awkward sound that seems like he might have choked. It’s only a moment longer before his arms are around you, and you feel like a person again.

Calloused hands come to cup the back of your head and run up and down your back as tears begin to form at the corners of your eyes. Alex soon buries his face in your hair, the familiar smell of your shampoo filling his nose.

He’d just gotten back from deployment, and you laid against his chest, warm bath water surrounding your bodies. His fingers ran through your hair, lathering it up with the soap that he’d missed the smell of so much.

It was jasmine, if he remembered right, which he usually didn’t. He didn’t really care much either way. All he knew was that it smelled like you. A small smile rested on your lips as he dipped his head down, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, and then another, and another, and another…

“Missed you, Alex.” You mumble sleepily, sighing contentedly as his lips travel up your neck.

“Missed you too, doll. Every day.” His gets the words out between kisses that won’t lead to anything more. You’re both already exhausted, and this, here, is perfect.

He slowly pulls away, his heart breaking all over again as you look at him with those same tear stricken eyes from the night you left. You’d been out with a friend getting drinks, and you came home a little later that usual.

It was eerily quiet when you opened the door. Alex never liked silence, there always had to be something. Music, usually whatever you both liked at the moment. The lack of response when you called his name only added to the stress, everything culminating when you found him shaking in a corner of the kitchen, tears streaming down his face, a broken plate on the floor next to him.

He’d been making, or trying to make, you dinner when it happened. A car backfired in the parking lot outside his window, and it was just loud enough to send him back. To the bombs dropping, to the fire and the smoke too thick to see through, and the screams. The pleas for help that he would be too late to answer.

It took you getting on your knees in front of him and shouting his name for him to snap out of it. He was back, and you were there.

Oh, fuck.

You were there. There to see him like this. Like the mess he’d turned into all because a damn car. You’d tried to comfort him, tried to take care of him. But of course, Alex being Alex, he refused. Stood up and tried to walk away from you and insist false equanimity for the last time. You grabbed his arm softly, watching in shock as he whipped around, fear cleverly disguised by anger in his eyes.

“Stay the fuck out of it.”

His words were harsh, cruel, and un-loving for the first time since you’d known him. Once the images of war that were there to haunt him every time he closed his eyes faded, once the panic left his body exhausted, he’d begged. The man in front of you begged for you not to leave.

“I’m sorry, doll! Please baby I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just need you to let me handle this on my own, I’m sorry!” He hadn’t stopped following you since he’d yelled, apology after apology slipping from his mouth.

You hadn’t responded to a single one until now.

“No, Alex! I can’t let you handle this alone, because you’re not fucking handling anything! All you do is pretend it’s not real because you’re too damn scared to admit that it is. You have issues, Alex! You need fucking help, and you’re certainly not gonna take it from me, so I’m done. I’m fucking done!”

The words you’d shouted at him that night sting in your mind like spitfire. It was true, of course. You just wish it hadn’t been said like that.

Alex slowly lets you into the apartment, wincing as you take in the view before you. Frankly, it’s a mess. Laundry is stacked on the couch where you used to sit, and it looks like he’s been sleeping on it for God knows what reason.

The truth is, the bed still smells like you, and he couldn’t take being in it alone.

The table is the most worrisome, a bottle of whiskey sitting on it half emptied, along with a cup and the vase you’d picked out.

The flowers, too. They’re dead, the petals laying around the vase in a circle, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw them out.

You’d picked them out, and it was jasmine, after all.

You turn to look back and him, the slump to his shoulders that never used to be there killing you. He sighs, running a hand through his unkempt hair. “It’s a mess, I know.” He admits, humiliated at the state you’ve found him it.

You quickly shake your head, trying to console him. Or placate, if you’re being honest. “It’s fine, really.” You answer awkwardly, not quite knowing what to say now that you’re here.

Alex clears his throat, knowing what he should do, what you always needed him to do. It doesn’t feel like the right time, but it probably never will. “I need help. I mean, I know I need help.” His voice falters for a moment, ready to run away and pretend that his words aren’t true.

“Your help.”

You breath a sigh of relief at hearing the one thing you’d needed him to say, to admit.

“I just-“ The sign quickly turns tired as you prepare yourself to hear an excuse as to why he won’t open up to you. “I just don’t want you to hate me.”

Now that, you weren’t prepared for. You not understanding? Sure. Wanting to “keep his lives separate” as he coined it? Definitely.

But you hating him? Not once did you ever even think of hating him. It’s unnatural. Impossible.

Ridiculous. So much so that you almost laugh as you run an exasperated hand through your hair. “Really, Alex? Hate you? Why the hell would I hate you for doing the one thing I needed you to do?” You slowly walk closer, cupping the side of his face with the softest touch you can manage. Watching as he sinks into the contact, exhaustion seeping from his every movement.

“Please, Alex.” You whisper “Please, just let me help you. We can fix this, you just have to talk to me.” His eyes slide open, showing the same shade of blue that sparkled under the dim lighting of the bar where you first met.

He sighs through his nose as he looks down at you, one thought running through his head.

She won’t understand.

He doesn’t want to make it your fault, it isn’t, of course. So he opts for skirting around what he really means. “You don’t know what I’ve done.” He answers simply, his voice quivering like the ebbing and flowing of a birds song.

“Then tell me. Tell me everything you think will make me hate you.” You partially expect him to refuse, for this to just be another broken plea for his trust added to the ever growing list.

But something, maybe the wells of sadness found in your eyes, maybe the desperation in your voice, maybe the hope that he could have back the one thing that he ever really cared about, you. Something snapped.

And so he does.

He tells, and he tells, and he tells until you don’t think you can take any more information. Tells stories of women, and children, of the aftermath of attacks he helped make happen. Tells stories of enemy soldiers begging for their lives, uttering pleas of families waiting for them as he tortured information out of them.

He told you everything.

And then, it was done. It was laid out before you, like his skin was torn from his body to reveal every ugly, cruel thing he’d ever done, all for your scrutinization. All for the judgment, the hatred, the scorn he was sure would come.

It never would, of course. Just an answer, a debunking of truths that only existed in his mind. The same thing you’d been trying to tell him this whole time.

“I love you, Alex.”

You can’t even count how many times you’d said that, but never had you seen a reaction from him like this. Seen the way tears immediately came to surface in his eyes, seen the tightening of his jaw, the shock so plainly written all over his face.

“Why?” He chokes out, still fighting against the tears that threaten to spill over his eyes. The fact that he doesn’t get it would almost be annoying if he wasn’t in this state.

“Because, Alex. You wouldn’t be this distraught over the things you’ve had to do if you were a bad person. You never were, you were a soldier that did what he had to do. How could I hate you for that?” It all makes sense to you, and Alex is smart, you know he understands. That doesn’t mean he believes it about himself, though.

Still, the chance of you, sitting in front of him, being here again?

He can’t pass that up. He’d be the biggest fool in the world to pass you up. And so he lets you in, he lets you love him, he lets you help him. His voice is shaky and dry as he speaks, but you don’t think you’ve ever loved another sound more.

“Thank you.”

“Then when I met you, my virtues uncounted. All of my goodness is goin' with you now.”

A/N: happy early veterans day, i guess

- di <3

#fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic writer #alex keller call of duty #alex keller cod #alex keller #alex keller x reader #alex keller x you #alex keller x y/n #call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #cod #cod mw #cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod mw19 #cod mw3

[di-writes-stuff]

minor COD3 spoilers below:

guys why the FUCK did alex look normal in like the first scene he was in and then spent the rest of the game looking like a damn hobgoblin?

#alex keller #alex keller call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw #cod mw3 #COD #call of duty mw3 #mw3 spoilers

[di-writes-stuff]

The Story Of Us

Alex Keller x Reader

One Shot

TW: Mentions of d€ath, alcohol consumption, arguing. Light stuff compared to most of my shit.

“Now I’m standing alone, in a crowded room, and we’re not speaking.”

You and Alex were…well, you and Alex. Close, too close by military standards, but neither of you ever cared too much about that. Just enough not to cross that line. Not to start something that could never continue.

Then again, it’s not like you hadn’t ever thought about it.

Either way, you two didn’t really fight, ever. You didn’t have a reason to until he took whatever you are a step too far. Abused his ranking as your Lieutenant.

The mission was important, dangerous too, and you were on it. At least, you were supposed to be. That is until he pulled you out, replaced you with some rookie who did a worse job then you ever would.

His excuse still burns in the back of your head, the few words he was able to get out before you slammed your door in his face with a stern “Go to hell.”

“I just wanted to keep you safe.”

You sigh, liquor stinging your throat as you remember that one sentence. It was easier to be mad at him before he said that. It’s not like you’re not still upset, but you can’t help the way his softly whispered apologies through the door loop in your mind like a scratched vinyl.

He just…he knew. He knew how important it was. And he knows how good you are, everybody knows how good you are. That’s why you got assigned to that job in the first place. And it’s not as if Alex disagreed. In fact, he knows better than anybody how much you could’ve handled it.

It wasn’t that he doubted you. It was fear. Pure, burning hot fear that you wouldn’t come back from this one. That you wouldn’t come back to him. In his mind, he couldn’t not do something. He couldn’t see your name on that list, the list that might as well have been a death sentence, and just leave it there.

He might as well have just killed you himself. And, in a way, he was right. Somebody died on that job. And not some rookie, this guy knew what he was doing. And still, a folded up flag was sent to a widows home in exchange for her husband, for her daughters father.

There was never a chance in hell Alex would let that flag replace you.

He wouldn’t.

No.

He couldn’t.

Although, it didn’t seem to matter much to you, seeing as you hadn’t spoken to him since the incident. It wasn’t his place to make that choice for you. You agreed to that mission knowing exactly what it entailed. Death is a part of the job, always has been, always will be. He can’t change that, so all that’ll happen is he’ll limit you, and you’ll resent the hell out of him for it.

To make matters worse, Alex decided to pull this shit right before the big, miserable, military ball. The night you planned on spending with him, judging all the rookie douchebags before sneaking out as soon as you can, hopefully with a snagged bottle of tequila in tow.

Instead your standing alone, leaned against the cold marble of the bar top, forcing the grimace off your face as the vodka burns all the way down your throat. Your dress is a little too tight, along with the heels on your feet that have grown far too used to nothing but combat boots.

In short, you feel like shit.

Even more so when the person you’ve been avoiding (and missing) for the past few weeks sidles up to you at the bar, sliding over a ten as you order yet another overpriced drink.

You were hoping to forget about the whole thing, but the blonde next to you clearly has other plans. “On me.” He says simply, flashing a grin at the bartender that has her blushing and turning away sheepishly in about a second.

The worst part is, he doesn’t even mean to do it. It’s just…him. He’s charismatic, handsome, sweet, charming, everything that made you see him as more than just a comrade.

Right now, he’s also an asshole, but you’re having a hard time remembering that when he’s looking at you the way he is. The smile he usually has on his face is gone the second he sees the scowl on yours, blue eyes softening with guilt as his shoulders sag.

Fuck, he’s handsome. His suit jacket was abandoned a while ago, and the bow he always complains about at these events is untied to allow him to undo the top few buttons of his shirt. His sleeves are rolled up to his biceps, tattoos on display in a way that makes stuffy trophy wives passing by scoff.

Your momentary distraction gives Alex a second to look you up and down, and he’d happily spend the rest of his life soaking in the view in front of him if he could. You look beautiful, you always do in his eyes, but especially tonight. The makeup you’re wearing isn’t too overpowering, not hiding any of the face he’s grown to adore so much.

Despite the way your anger weakens at the sight of his face, you manage to think up a spiteful response. “First I can’t do my job, now I can’t buy my own drinks either.” You turn to look him in the eyes the glare that never seems to leave your face these days piercing into him.

The sigh that leaves his lips is prominent. It’s not like he thought you’d just get over it, but God, he hates being on your bad side. Not just because it takes so damn long to get off it, but cause it’s you. “Y/N…” He starts before getting cut off again.

“Oh don’t you worry Alex, I’m just glad I have a big, strong man around to take care of me. I mean, whatever would I do without you?” Your voice is flat, yet dripping with sarcasm as you down the shot he paid for. All the while he tries to ignore the way his breath hitches in his throat at hearing his name from your mouth for the first time since this all happened.

He reaches up, running an exasperated hand over his face. He knew you would be mad of course, but he didn’t exactly plan on how to deal with it. He just…acted. It was a panic response, the only thing he could think to do that would keep you safe. Keep you alive.

“It’s not about that and you know it. I don’t think you need protection, and I definitely don’t think you need me.” He answers, keeping his voice low to avoid causing a scene.

If it weren’t for the topic, the situation would feel awfully familiar. You and Alex at a bar, his voice quiet next to you, saying just the right things to get you to blush, his flirtation making your knees go weak as you try not to choke on your drink.

You hate how much you miss it, just after a few weeks.

You hate even more that this is happening instead.

You turn to face him, something a little more than anger in your eyes. The kind of hurt that only comes around when it’s dealt by someone you love. The kind that makes your body shake with the weight of it. “If I don’t need protection, why the hell did you do it?” You ask, cursing the way your voice wavers at the look in his eyes.

Love, or something close, anyway. It’s dappled with guilt, juxtaposed by the knowledge that he’d do it again if he had to.

Something in him snaps at your words as he whips around to face you with his whole body. “Because it wasn’t just about you, Y/N. I’m sorry for hurting you, I really am, okay? I know you’re capable, more than most the guys we’ve got out in the field. I know. But I couldn’t do nothing, I couldn’t let you go knowing at least one person probably wasn’t coming back.”

“Knowing that one person might be you. I lo…I care, about you, I won’t apologize for that. I won’t apologize for keeping you alive.” His voice shakes as he prays you didn’t hear it. That little slip. The beginnings of a phrase that’s all but banned between soldiers.

I love you.

You didn’t miss it. Of course you didn’t. How could you when you’ve been waiting years to hear it? Hear those three words slip from his mouth, the ones that you’ll never be brave enough to say first.

Now’s not the time to mention that, you both know it, but he started a fire inside you, one that’ll need more fuel sooner or later.

“You can’t always keep me safe, Alex.” Softness creeps into the edges of your voice as you answer, anger draining from your body like glass through a tire.

He doesn’t think anything’s ever hurt more than that one sentence. He was always going to have to face it, some day, at some point.

But now?

That, he wasn’t ready for. “I know.” His voice is barely a whisper when he responds. There’s a pregnant pause before he adds on:

“Doesn’t mean I won’t try.”

You quickly lose the fight to keep a small smile off your face at his words. You should’ve expected it from him. Stubborn, dedicated, loyal Alex. All the things that drive you crazy about him. They’re the same ones that make you love him, too.

Your fingers brush as you breathe out before responding.

“I’m serious, Alex. Never again. You don’t decide what I can and can’t handle.” Any attempt at sounding serious is quickly washed away as his hand slips around yours, grasping it softly.

Although, he’s still taking it to heart. He’s still listening, that much you can tell. Despite the way you, much like the bartender, blush as the beginnings of a smirk from on his face.

And despite the way he slowly inches closer to you.

Despite the way you lean into the circle of gravity that seemed to exist around him, you like the moon orbiting around the earth.

Despite the way his hands slowly sliding onto your hips send shivers running up your spine.

Despite the way your lips are mere inches apart, the liquor you’d both been consuming to forget now working to dampen your judgment.

Despite all that, he still makes sure to answer before his lips press against yours, a smile spreading across your lips to mirror the one on his own.

“Yes ma’am.”

A/N: okay this is a wee bit cheesy, cant lie, think i wrapped it up to fast at the end, but i still like it. figured it was only proper for me to write something for the love of my life before cod 3 drops. enjoy, girlypops.

(also i promise i’m working on part 2 of cowboy like me for any arthur enjoyers out there.)

- di <3

#fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic writer #self insert fanfiction #fanfiction writer #alex keller x reader #alex keller x you #alex keller x y/n #alex keller #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #COD #cod mw #alex keller cod #call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic

[di-writes-stuff]

if he doesn’t please put me on a hot sidewalk

do you guys think joel miller would still love u even if u were a worm