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readingcoco · 3 months

Text

Painted Red 🖤

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader (f)

Words: 3444 words

Ao3 Link

Summary: When a new sandy-haired Deputy Sheriff arrives in town, you can't figure out why he gives you and the other Working Girls so little attention. It becomes your mission to figure him out and hopefully make some money along the way.

Warnings: 18+ minors dni, eventual smut, sex work, period typical attitudes, strangers to lovers, medium honor Arthur Morgan, angst, mutual pining, Deputy Callahan.

Thanks to @rivetingrosie4, @redwritr & @shootybangbang for all your help on this story and for being dreamy angels.

Chapter One - The Deputy

[chapter 2]

“Guess who’s downstairs!” a voice interrupts from behind your door.

The autumn sun sits heavy in the sky, casting a warm pink haze that spills in through your bedroom window. You were supposed to start your shift an hour ago, but instead, you are here, sprawled out on your bed, hair undone, counting the money from the evening before. Muffled notes from the piano downstairs drift softly into your room. You inhale deeply on your cigarette, resenting all things that pull you away from these precious sleepy moments before you have to head downstairs. Make conversation. Smile. Perform.

Timekeeping has never been your strong suit, and you have lost count of the times Lulu had threatened to dock your tips for tardiness. These were empty threats, of course. You knew your position was secure - Even if Lulu liked to kick up a fuss in front of the other girls.

Brow furrowed, you take another drag from your cigarette. $15. $75 total from the week so far. Money hadn’t been flowing as freely as it had done seasons past. The drought had hit everyone hard, and you knew, sure enough, if the boys were feeling it in the tobacco fields, it wouldn’t be long till you were feeling it in the cat house, too. Seemed everyone was praying for rain. Still, Saturday meant full pay packets and men eager to let loose after the working week - something you were more than happy to help them with.

“Who!?” you call out, just as Minnie peeps her head around your door.

“Christ! You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge ass backwards! Lulu’s been askin' after you?”

You hum in response, dragging a comb through the bird's nest atop your head sweeping it up into a loose bun. “Who's got you all giddy? Surely not some John?”

“That new Deputy’s back!”

You roll your eyes. “How big’s the pot now?”

“$5. $5.25, if you still fancy your chances”, Minnie smirks, perching herself at the foot of your bed, watching as you put the last of your face on. “but Ida says she’s out. She don’t wanna waste more time on a Trick who don’t want tricking.”

“Tricks always want to be tricked,” you say, rooting through the collection of bills and coins laid out haphazardly across your bed, handing Minnie 25¢, which she slips into her coin purse.

Men were mostly the same. Sure, some might pretend to be respectable in the streets with their wives or taking their mothers to church on a Sunday, but you’d had every colour and creed between your legs. This deputy would be no different, and you were going to relish claiming the prize pot for yourself.

With a final drag of your cigarette, you smooth out your skirts and collect the pile of money on your bed, stashing it in your linen drawer - making a mental note to deposit it in the parlour safe before the night was out. Keeping that much money in your room is foolish, and if you were more sensible, you would deposit your tips between each John. But then you’d miss out on watching the pile grow. Evidence of your labour, your time, your craft. It wasn't like you worried you wouldn’t get it back as soon as requested - Lulu’d always been good about things like that, but to hand it over before you’d even had the chance to feel the paper fully in your palm seemed like it would make it less real somehow.

You turn to Minnie-

“You ready?”

“Girl, I’ve been waiting on you!”

“Let’s give that deputy the night of his life.”

Although the sun is yet to set in the sky, the house is already live with music and laughter, the mezzanine balcony providing the perfect vantage point to assess what the evening might have in store. There are men fresh from the fields playing Faro, Lemoyne Raiders several whiskeys deep, a few of the younger, more boisterous Grays and the creepy gunsmith, Mister Feeney. Not amazing pickings, but not dire either. Then you spot him, sitting quietly on the table closest to the door, hat pulled low, scribbling something furiously into some book. An odd sight, all considered. You weren’t sure most of the men in this town could read, let alone write.

Minnie squeezes your arm before descending the spiralled staircase, the Deputy firmly in her sights. You lean back to watch as she glides effortlessly across the room—a vision in teal silk taffeta.

As you settle onto your hip, the fine hairs on your neck abruptly stand to attention as the air pressure changes behind you.

“So kind of you to grace us with your presence.” Lulu’s voice drips thick with syrupy disdain. Smile remaining tight. Never in front of the guests.

“Punctuality is a virtue of the bored, Miss Lulu.” You smile sweetly.

She’s not impressed.

“Just get to work. Make Some Money.”

As you look back down to the floor below, a dispirited Minnie is walking away from the Deputy, his nose still firmly in his book. You bristle slightly. Did this man think himself better than the women who worked here? Sure, he was paying for drinks, but a man could drink at home if he was looking for solitude. In a parlour house, it was polite, proper even, to tip the girls, whether you require our services or not. And if the deputy didn’t know this etiquette, you were more than happy to educate him. Prize pot be damned.

It was your turn to make the night’s debut down the curve of the parlour’s stairs, something that on an ordinary night, you liked to draw out for as long as possible. Feel the eyes of each man gaze up at your form like they were watching a goddess descending from heaven, blessing them with your time. True power. But tonight, it takes everything in you not to stomp down the last few steps onto the floor.

That cad still isn’t paying you a lick of attention.

“Deputy.” Your voice comes out curter than you intend as you reach him. You hope Lulu isn’t close enough to overhear.

“Maybe another time, Darlin” " the man responds without looking up.

Make conversation.

“Deputy” You try again. “Are you aware of the price on your head?”

The sound of pencil scratching comes to a halt as he turns to face you. To your surprise, you notice that he was drawing rather than writing as he snaps the leather-bound book shut—the sound startling your gaze upwards to meet his own. And for the first time, you take in the scale of the man. Built like an Ox with broad shoulders and a barrel chest, upon which the words ‘Deputy Sheriff’ shine out from his silver badge. From this proximity, he looks unlike any lawman you’ve seen.

He watches you intently as though trying to predict your next move - eyes a piercing shade of azure blue, locked dangerously onto your own. You have his full attention, but now you’re unsure if you want it.

“Excuse me?”

You swallow and try to make your next words lighter in tone.

Smile.

“Nearly five and a half dollars, in fact.”

His shoulders loosen ever so slightly. Eyes still on you but less predacious, perhaps even the suggestion of a smirk beginning to form at the corner of his mouth.

“Five and a half dollars? That’s some bounty. What I do, rob a bank?”

“Worse,”

He rubs his jaw.

“Oh?”

“You got five whores questioning our faculties. There’s a sweep on which lucky lady’s gonna be the first to get you upstairs, but so far, no one’s got as far as your name.”

A low rasp of a laugh passes the Deputy’s lips, and you feel a sense of relief as the danger in the air dissipates. Bluntness- this man responds to bluntness. And you wonder if you can hold his attention long enough to work your magic.

Perform.

“There are normally two reasons a man mightn’t want to lay with a girl like me…”

You pause for effect, starting to have fun now.

“He’s broke. Though that don’t stop most from pushin’ their luck. Or they’re queer.”

The Deputy straightens and clears his throat. There is something delightful about making a man like this squirm, and you can’t help but sense that he may be enjoying it too.

“So which is it, Deputy?”

You give him your most innocent of smiles. Hand finding purchase upon the swell of his shoulder, knowing full well that its removal could signal the latter of your accusations. You are being cruel now.

There is a moment of hesitation before the man can find the words to respond. Your unassuming smile not giving him an inch of wiggle room. Thumb beginning to make slow circles atop his shirt.

“I-It’s just not really my thing. Payin' for it, I mean. Not that I can’t, or - or-”

“Oh? There’s some third thing I ain’t privy to? A sweetheart somewhere you’re keeping true for?”

“Not really, no.”

A hint of regret in his voice.

“Then why deny yourself a bit of company?”

You notice the tips of his ears turn pink and leave his lack of an answer to hang in the air for a moment before taking pity-

“Don’t worry, I’m just teasin’, but you ought to know it’s customary to buy a girl a drink, even if you ain’t planning on laying with her. We all have to make a living, Deputy, and this is my house.”

And you're not sure if it’s out of a sense of gratitude at you relenting your line of questioning or because he has started to enjoy the warmth from your hand on his shoulder, but that’s when he motions for the barkeeper to bring two drinks over to the table.

Your eyes dart over to Minnie, who is sat between two Grays. She throws you an encouraging wink, and you become keenly aware of the four other sets of eyes watching too. This is the furthest any of you has got with this man, and a wave of responsibility washes over you. You are going to earn that $5.25 plus the additional $5 when he fucks you. You feel foolish for ever doubting your ability in the first place. A man is a man, is a man.

“Ethel White”, you hold out your hand “but call me Ettie.”

“Arthur Callahan.”

Arthur.

He nods to the chair across from him as he removes the leather book from the table and puts it away in his satchel. You pull out the chair next to him instead, purposefully pinning him between you and the wall.

“Christ woman, you ain’t coy, are you?” he laughs, removing his hat, revealing a sandy crop of hair.

Without his hat, you are better able to take in the details of his face: the strong brow, the crook of a nose broken one too many times, a smattering of sunspots across his crown. Quite handsome, you think to yourself, a welcome change from the interchangeable looks of the Grays or Braithwaites who make up the bulk of your clientele.

“Not at all,” you smirk. “Besides, I want to take a look at what you were scribbling away at in that book. Must be awfully interesting to hold your attention so well.” You glance down at the journal now peeking out the top of his satchel. “Is that watercolour paper?”

“Huh?”

“Watercolour paper, you know, to stop the paint seeping through and spoiling the rest of the pages? I saw you were drawing and-”

He looks at you then, and you can see a slight flicker of shame cross his face momentarily. The feeling of someone pointing out the unfamiliar to a previously known thing, changing it somehow, making it less your own. You feel guilty. Watching him squirm was fun, but you never intended to make him feel foolish.

“I don’t paint. It’s for sketching mostly, keepin' track of the people and places I’ve been.”

“You do a lot of travelling, Deputy?”

“A bit.”

That instinct again, that there is more to this man than meets the eye. The lawman artist a walking contradiction.

“What do you paint then?”

His question catches you off guard. Men like to be asked about themselves. They rarely ever show interest in you. A prick of heat flushes across your cheeks, and you hope the rouge of false abashment covers its authentic companion. It’s you who is in control here - not him, goddammit. But his face is filled with genuine curiosity, like he wouldn’t have asked if he wasn’t interested, and that’s what puzzles you further.

“Um, landscapes mostly, but I prefer painting people.” The words spill out before a filter of allurement or double entendre can be applied. “It’s just difficult to get people to sit for any length of time. Though I’ve painted all the girls here at some point or another.”

“Where’d ya learn?”

And that is a question too far.

You’d been gifted a great many things over the years, some thoughtful, most not, and learned the hard way how easily something given could be taken away. You’re art though, no one could take that. You wondered sometimes if that had been an oversight when you’d been promised lessons. The techniques acquired the only remaining thing worth a damn apart from your horse. Leftovers from another life.

“Don’t change the subject, Deputy. Are you going to show me your sketches or not?” Before you can stop yourself, you are leaning over him to grab at his satchel, totally aware that the danger this man displayed to you only moments earlier still lies just below the surface. With lightning-quick reflexes, he grabs the wrist of your right hand, firm in his warning. Do not push me, girl. But you have never been one to know when to stop. Your eyes are locked onto him as your breath comes in quick and heavy to your chest; You notice his start to slow. He’s read you like a book. Left hand spearing from under the table to meet your secondary attack, pinning it against his thigh.

You look down at your fingers splayed out under the weight of his own. Knuckles scarred and calloused from a lifetime of work not typically required by law enforcement. The warmth from his thigh radiates beneath your palm, and it takes everything in you not to edge your fingers closer to the source of his heat.

He meets you with an expression you struggle to place. Not anger - though you couldn’t blame him if it was. Amusement maybe?

“Think careful about your next move now, Miss. I wouldn't want to have to arrest you for larceny.”

You give him your widest of smiles and look carefully over your shoulder behind you. And as though suddenly clocking the inference of your shared position, Arthur lowers your right hand so it rests on the table rather than in the air. The grip still firm.

“If I let you go, will you behave?”

“Will you show me your drawings?”

“Woman-” But he doesn’t say no.

“I’ll behave.”

He looks at you, trying to figure out whether he trusts you.

“I promise.”

Gaze still set, he experiments loosening the grip on your wrist and then shadows the hand on his thigh - awaiting any sudden movements. You hold still. And for a moment, you see him grapple with himself as though he can’t quite believe what he is about to do. He releases you fully, and you take back your right hand, leaving your left firmly in place.

“Now, if I show you, you gotta promise not to go grabbin'? There’s stuff a man should be able to keep private.”

You nod.

He grins as he bucks his thigh, dislodging your rooted palm.

“Hands behind your back.”

With a playful huff you acquiesce, putting both arms behind you as though bound and look back at him coquettishly. And although he feigns disinterest at the way this new position pushes forward the peak of your chest, you catch his eyes dart across them, guilty in their haste.

He removes the leather-bound journal from his satchel, smoothing open two pages carefully on the table.

“Here. But that’s your lot.”

Spread across both pages is a beautifully rendered sketch of the parlour’s exterior, and you don’t know how to react. He stiffens slightly beside you.

“Just a silly doodle,” he says, moving to close the book. Clearly reading your quietness for disappointment, disgust, something else?

“Wait-”

To see the parlour captured in such effortless detail; The ornate carvings of the porch where you take your morning coffee, the Virginia Creeper that had to be cut back for fear it’d engulf the entire house, the hanging baskets of petunias that Lulu so lovingly tended to - feels exposing in a way you’d not expected. What other unnoticed minutiae had his perceptive eyes picked up on?

“It’s beautiful. You’ve captured it just right.” You half-whisper.

“Ain’t as good as a paintin’.”

“Different thing entirely, but if you can draw like this, I’m sure you’d make a fine painter.”

He gives you the smallest of smiles as you catch sight of Lulu’s permeating glare as she sweeps down the central staircase. You are on the clock. If he’s not biting, move on. And you remember you are not here to discuss painting or art unless it serves your more explicit purpose.

“See that top window at the back?” You make sure to graze his arm as you remove one hand from behind your back, bringing it slowly to the open page.

“That’s my bedroom.”

“Oh?”

“Might you like to come up and see some of my work?”

You can see him contemplating the thought over in his mind, and you start to wonder if there really is some poor woman he is betrothed to… or perhaps your prior insinuation was correct, for you have never met a man so ill at ease at being in close proximity to a woman-

“Mister Callahan!”

You are both pulled away from each other's gaze as you turn to face your intruder. Sheriff Gray. And you are up and on your feet in an instant. Eyes twinkling with faux excitement to welcome this invader of fun, spoiler of all things delightful and new. Arthur straightens to attention.

“I see you’ve met Ettie. Ain’t she a peach? I hope she’s been treatin’ you with all the hospitality we here at Rhodes can offer.” As he slurs his words, it is clear he’s already halfway soaked and once again, you feel Lulu’s watchful eyes on the back of your neck. You have a responsibility to your house, and Sheriff Gray isn’t any regular John. To keep him placated is to keep the house protected, and it is your duty to ensure the Sheriff remains happy and drunk, coddled and empty.

“Oh, stop it!” You coo in his ear, wrapping your arm up tightly in his. Voice layered thick with honey.

The shine on his breath hits like a train, bringing tears to your eyes that you mask by nuzzling your head to his shoulder. He sags heavy on your hip, oblivious.

“You didn’t tell me you’d hired such a handsome new Deputy-''

Arthur shifts in his seat, and you wonder what detail of your performance his observant eyes have picked up on.

“You keepin’ secrets from me, Sheriff? Or do you just want me all to yourself?”

“I’d be lyin’ if I said I didn’t.” Sheriff Gray hiccups and turns to face Arthur. “Do you mind if I accompany the lady upstairs?”

Arthur stands, towering over the Sheriff by quite some measure and places his hat back atop his head.

“Course not. You both enjoy your evening. I’ve to be headin' back anyway.”

For a second, your eyes meet Arthur’s, but his expression is impenetrable. The Sheriff speaks again.

“Safe travels, Deputy. Rhodes is honoured to have such honest men like you and Mr Mackintosh about. Your work rootin’ out that shine is already being felt around the county.”

Arthur nods. The effects of the shine are certainly being felt.

He hiccups again. “Don’t be a stranger, now.”

“Don’t be a stranger.” You repeat, all traces of the sickly sweet affect gone from your voice. You yip as the Sheriff swats your backside, but you keep your head high, eyes still held on this curious lawman artist.

Don’t be a stranger.

“Miss.” Deputy Callahan touches the brim of his hat as you lead Sheriff Gray upstairs to your room.

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x fem!reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 smut #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x oc #painted red

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the0retically · 5 months

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I need to relisten to episode three, there was so much in it and I can’t process it all but these moments were fantastic:

-Emizel saying Soda loves him already so him becoming a ghoul wouldn’t matter and down the line he wants to make Soda a vampire so they can be alike

-Emizel suggesting alternatives to soda and offering another soda incident to help Soda out

-Deacon taking Shilo to all the places he wants to see and then having the conversation about how being him makes him Shilo, not the fact that he’s the prince, but the fact that he’s the product of his experiences and wants not just his position

-Deacon giving Shilo a deputy badge and also tucking him into bed, giving off strong dad vibes there buddy

-Arthur going into a frenzy and having the choice be keep feeding on the family, look for an animal, or find a vampire to feed on instead?? Like what??

-Grefgore is just gone

-Magnus being human?? and helping Arthur with tasks (edit: YEAH HAVING A MALE PARTNER TOO! Slimecicle you’ve done it again, head in hands I cannot get this man’s name correct, but fixed it)

-Emizel still not knowing Arthur’s name and just calling him Brood

-Shilo being able to eat food up until there’s garlic in it

-Arthur having a little brother

-All of them having nightmares

And there’s so much more that I can’t even think about fully right now but god it was so good, Charlie Slimecicle you continue to knock it out of the park

#jrwi #jrwi thoughts #the suckening #the suckening spoilers #charlie slimecicle #arthur bennett #emizel tucker #shilo bathory #jrwi soda #jrwi Theo #jrwi deacon #jrwi grefgore #sorry for the long post I’m just going insane

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twola · 10 months

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Hey don't know if this one is up your alley but I was wondering if you could do one where the reader is a sharpshooter (kinda like Black Belle) and Arthur was originally gonna take her to the sheriff's but they end up getting caught up in a fight with the O'Driscolls and she saves his life, then que the enemies to friends to lovers lmao

Later on they meet again and take down a house full of lemoyne raiders, they both lay low for a while then smut ensues lol.

I'm bad at describing but you can put your own twist on it if you want, make it however long you want, don't matter I just love your writing ❤️❤️

Hoooooo’kay. So this is probably a bit harder than the original requestor was thinking, but I’ve written too many sweet one-shots recently. It’s time to get a little nasty.

Anything You Can Do

Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

Arthur meets his match in one of his bounties. His infuriatingly difficult match.

taglist: @pinkiemme, @redwritr, @mykneeshurt, @bimbo-dollz

Curtis Malloy rolls his eyes as the gunslinger ahead of him inquires about the bounty poster tucked on the far corner of his desk. Of course, the man would ask about that one. A picture of a woman, of all things, wanted for murder, robbery, and theft. A woman with hard eyes but a pleasing face.

Wasn’t the first one to come askin’. The sheriff took the damn poster off the wall after men started dying when they went after her. He’d hear talk of fool-hearted bounty hunters heading north into Ambarino to find this lady to bring her in, only to end with lead between their eyes, floating down the Dakota River.

But this man, well, he’s been rather successful as of late - and Malloy knew that he probably ran in the same vein of people he was picking up. No loyalty to the trade, he guesses. And in the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t any skin off of his nose. Would get the man out of his hair and stop begging for more folks to hunt. Give him more time to deal with this Moira situation…

“Supposed to be up campin’ by Window Rock. But she likely has the area booby-trapped. Startin’ to lose count of the men who’ve gone up there to get killed tryin’ to take in this little lady.” Malloy warns as he hands the poster to the man ahead of him. The man grunts, tucking away the poster in his brown leather jacket, nodding before exiting out to the street.

Malloy gives a look to one of his deputies across the room.

Both begin to laugh.

Arthur’s seen his fair share of women easily fend for themselves. He saw the way Black Belle could shoot - likely better than he could. He sure as hell wouldn’t want to meet Mrs. Adler in a dark alley. She’d likely stab him before he could get a hand on her.

This woman supposedly had a deadly shot - a pile of bounty hunters at her feet. He knew he wasn’t going to just walk up to the tent and threaten you. This required a bit more finesse.

But still, as he gazed through his binoculars at his prize, you certainly didn’t look like the woman people were talking about in Valentine. Fairly short in stature, long dark hair falling in waves over your back. Arthur raises an eyebrow when he notices your curves as you kneel on one knee at your campfire.

Nope, he definitely does not miss the way those trousers hug your form.

He also does not miss the revolver in the belt slung around your hips as you rise from the fire, stretching your arms above your head and yawning. He does not miss the fishing line taut along the ground, tied to a rock precariously perched on a tree branch. Obviously placed there to alert you of intruders. Several fellers likely met their end due to that fishing line.

Arthur circles the campsite at a wide angle, hidden by the shadows of the night. He takes his time hunting his prey, taking in the lay of the land around, noting your movements, and ways of egress - like stalking a deer, he has you in his sights and is damn sure of it before he makes his move.

That move being edging dangerously close, revolver drawn, and diving at you once you’re in distance to reach. Your breath is knocked from your lungs as his large form lands atop you on the hard ground, caging in your limbs beneath him. You squawk, in a rather undignified manner, as he holsters his own revolver and reaches into yours to draw it out, disarming you and tossing your revolver several feet away.

“Get your damn hands off me.” You spit, but alas, the way he has you pinned down, you’re unable to fight back. The strength of this man was frightening. If it weren’t for the damn noose you know is waiting for you at the end of this, you would be excited by how strong he is. He quickly and easily hogties you, leaving you cursing and sputtering on the ground as he whistles for his horse.

Once his mare has sidled up, he heaves you over his shoulder like a damn sack of potatoes, and you yelp in indignation as he tosses you over the rump of his horse.

A sack of potatoes with a very nice ass in those trousers.

Arthur blinks briefly before shaking his head, pulling himself up into the saddle. Just to cut back through Cumberland and to Valentine, then he’d get the pretty penny on this woman’s head. One of the larger bounties he’s seen, he has to admit.

“You lousy sack of shit, I wasn’t bothering anyone!” You yell from the rump of the horse.

“Ain’t me who decides your bounty, Miss-” Arthur simply replies, urging the mare into a trot, before you cut him off with a hiss.

“Say another word and I’ll geld you.” You interrupt before he can say your name.

“Sure, lady.” Arthur chuckles, knowing you wouldn’t be gelding anyone hogtied on the back of his horse, crossing the Dakota near Fort Wallace.

Blessed silence. For what seems like only a few moments.

“Since you know me so well, who the hell are you?” You ask, raising your head a bit.

“Now why would I tell you that?” Arthur chuckles, urging his horse southward on the road, deep into Cumberland Forest.

“I’d like to at least know the man’s name before I get fucked.” You retort, an even more sour tone in your voice.

“Arthur Morgan, my lady.” He replies, egging you on with the honorific, knowing you ain’t anything close to that, especially with the mouth on you. He’s about to stay something to prod you further when he hears voices up the road in the distance.

“Shit.” Arthur curses, as four green-sashed men crash through the trees. He immediately circles the horse to change direction as he hears a rider approaching on horseback, yelling at him.

Of course, O’Driscolls had taken up again at Six Point. Morgan, you idiot, you’re waltzing straight past them.

“Let me go and I can help you.” You call from behind him, trying to duck from whizzing bullets as much as your bindings would allow.

“Yeah, so you can shoot me in the back of the head too? Not a chance, lady.” Arthur retorts as he spurs his mare into a gallop, and you grunt as the wind gets knocked out of you from the jolting.

The O’Driscolls are in hot pursuit, the rider is joined by three others as Arthur pushes his horse back toward the Dakota, but with you slung over the back of her rump, he’s not able to urge his horse faster, not if he was going to get this bounty. Needed you alive.

He curses aloud as a bullet whizzes by his head on the right, and he turns the horse to the left, which was a poor decision as the mare reaches the cliffsides jutting up on either side of the Dakota, the river far below.

Pinned down along the face of the cliff, Arthur senses his horse getting skittish. Any more of this and the mare is going to buck him, and the bounty. He curses again as a bullet nearly hits his hat, sliding off the saddle and dragging you to the ground. You squeak with indignation until you hit the ground, groaning and cursing him. But to your surprise, he is unsheathing his knife and cutting the ropes at your ankle and wrists. You immediately scramble up and turn to him, smacking him hard across the face.

“Serves you right, asshole.”

“Y’done now, lady?” Arthur fumes, working his jaw as he reaches over your shoulder to grab the long guns from his horse’s saddles, before the damn thing spooks and runs away.

“If you wanna go with them, be my guest, but O’Driscolls don’t have a particularly good reputation of their handlin’ of women.” Arthur sneers at you, shoving a repeater at your chest, glaring before another bullet whizzes by and the both of you hit the ground out of sheer reflex.

You immediately open and close the lever to chamber a round, gritting your teeth. “This thing full at least?”

“Yes, your majesty.” Arthur retorts as he pulls revolvers from his belt, dual wielding as his mare screams and bolts for cover.

By the time the two of you rise, bullets fly and hit their targets, one O’Driscoll falling off his horse in a spray of blood to his chest, another gets shot in the head and his body limply clings in the saddle. Arthur runs across the open glen, knowing he’s a sitting duck in the wide open, and you dart in the other direction to the other treeline, quickly disappearing from sight.

Goddamnit. Of course you ran. Morgan, you’re even more of an idiot.

Arthur is fuming to himself so much so that he doesn’t hear the clicking of the revolver’s safety until too late, the steel of a barrel being pressed against the back of his neck.

“Drop 'em’.” The O’Driscoll threatens, and Arthur drops the revolvers in his hands, clattering to the ground as his captor pushes him forward, winding an arm around his shoulder and pressing the revolver further into his neck. They stop in the middle of the clearing.

“Think ol’ Colm misses ya, Morgan.”

Arthur scowls at the ground with the warm barrel of the gun against his neck, probably burning his skin. The O’Driscoll laughs behind him.

“You stop right there, you mick bastard.”

Your voice, high and sharp, cuts through the mountain air like a knife.

The O’Driscoll spins himself and Arthur around, forcing Arthur ahead of him to shield most of his body.

“C’mon now, you go on and leave the shootin’ to the men, dearie. I’ll even give you a head start.” The O’Driscoll laughs as you point the repeater dead at his face, twenty feet away.

You don’t move, and the O’Driscoll frowns, shoving his pistol into Arthur’s neck harder.

“Put the gun down, lady. Or Morgan gets the next round.”

Your stance never wavers. A small smirk comes across your face.

“Doin’ me a favor then?”

The O’Driscoll raises his eyebrow, but in a flash, it is all over. The crack of the repeater echoes in the glen as a body hits the ground. Arthur’s hat rolls on its lid across the ground.

“Jesus Christ!” Arthur stumbles ahead, holding his ear, absolutely covered in blood and brain matter. His eyes flit behind him, to take in the O’Driscoll, dead on the ground, half his face caved in from the bullet that hit him between the eyes.

He looks up to you in shock and bewilderment. You slowly lower the repeater and open and close the lever, chambering another round. Completely unfazed.

“I got one more round in here, Mister Morgan. I’d like very much not to use it on you.” You state with an air of superiority, dead serious as you grip the repeater tightly.

Arthur slowly raises his hands, his guns still strewn across the ground feet away after his tussle with the now-dead O’Driscoll.

“Now listen to me. I’m gonna take one of these horses and be on my way. And you ain’t gonna follow me. You’re gonna forget that bounty and get on with the next sucker you chase down.” You say, with an even, deadly tone.

“Don’t you usually shoot them men comin’ after you?” Arthur asks, his hands still outstretched.

“I do. But usually the men comin’ after me ain’t as handsome as you are. Would be a shame to blow your brains out.” You say with a smirk, starting to back away, toward where the O’Driscoll’s horse grazes in the long grass.

Arthur’s cheeks tinge pink as he remains still, but lowers his hands.

“I’m sure I’ll see you again, Mister Morgan. Maybe you can make up for me savin’ your pretty hide.”

You give an exaggerated curtsy before climbing into the saddle of the horse, the repeater still ready to fire. You grab the reins tightly and circle the horse once before galloping off, leaving Arthur Morgan standing alone in the clearing, saved but for the dead O’Driscoll.

Lemoyne was too damn hot. Sweltering. Disgusting. Even as the dusk fell. Even outside of the damn swamp, Arthur hated it. The gang had moved south after that shootout with Cornwall in Valentine. Bad business all around. Now, Dutch and Hosea have been working both angles of the local yokel families, locked in some kind of bitter generational feud.

Arthur just needed to clear his head. Dutch had him working as a lawman, of all the ridiculous things. He’s taken this free moment to do his own work, having been tipped off on a Lemoyne Raiders safe house not far from Ringneck Creek, supposed to be just a few of these idiots and a cache of items they have stored from their roadside robberies throughout the state.

Ripe for the taking.

The old barn house stood on the rise, and he could tell, as he swung down from his mare just beyond the treeline. He smacks her rump and she’s off, back down toward the Kamassa. He lets the rifle strapped across his shoulders down, aiming through its sights at the movement of men in the distance.

“Well well, if it isn’t the fastest draw in the west.” A sharp voice cuts through the quiet.

Arthur swings his rifle at the interloper that appeared several feet away from him, cursing himself for not being aware of his surroundings.

Oh. It’s you.

God damnit.

“The hell are you doing here?” Arthur harshly whispers, lowering the rifle.

You nod your head toward the barn behind him, “I was going in on a tip I got that the yokels had things stashed here.”

Arthur frowns. “Don’t tell me you got that from Alden.”

“The ticket man, in Rhodes.”

“God damnit.” He rolls his eyes. He scowls at you, standing there with your hand on your hip. Looking positively infuriating in dark trousers and a fairly tight-fitting button-down. Highlighting your curves, while your dark hair is pulled back into a long braid.

Focus, damnit. Arthur chides himself as he turns back toward the barn, looking again through the scope of this rifle at the men mulling about.

“Tell you what, Mister Morgan. You could use another gun. I could use wastin’ less bullets on these inbreds. Split what we find.”

Arthur has counted seven Raiders going in and out of the barn, which would be a fairly large number if he were alone. He sighs in exasperation.

“Fine.”

“Well, probably wasn’t the whole lot of them, I’m sure there are more of these wannabe civil war soldiers slinking about.” You muse, rifling through papers on a makeshift as Arthur picks a lockbox, pocketing the billfolds inside. Stepping over a dead body, you catch Arthur’s frame over that lockbox.

You notice what his hands are doing, and glare at him. “Hey - asshole, we’re splittin’ this.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, but acquiesces, tossing one of the billfolds at you. You catch it with ease.

“After that noise we should probably lay low for a bit.” You move toward the barn door, shouldering your repeater, stopping to listen outside for a moment.

“Oh, so now there’s a we?” Arthur snaps back at you as he follows you to the door.

“Be my guest if you wanna head into the swamps at this time of night. I, on the other hand, have a cabin I cleared out on the other side of Dewberry Creek.” You glance at him, pushing through the barndoor with your hand on your gun, looking around for any kind of movement. Your horse has meandered closer, and you whistle lowly for it to come closer.

You pull yourself into the saddle and look down at him.

“You coming? Or you just gonna stand there like an idiot?”

“Ain’t this homey?” Arthur retorts, looking at the rundown state of the cabin inside. A bed, with a near-disintegrating blanket, an old table, broken cabinets, and maybe one chair that didn’t look like it was about to fall apart.

“Ain’t your momma teach you manners? Lady invites you into her abode and you just insult her.” You slide the rifle from your back and place it upright against the stone fireplace.

“You’re a lady now? Coulda fooled me.” Arthur follows, placing his repeater on the table, unwilling to have you get the last word in.

You sneer at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Last time I checked, I have two tits and a cunt - pretty sure that makes me a lady - unless you’ve encountered different.”

“Pretty sure a lady wouldn’t be speakin’ like that.” Arthur returns, glancing away from you and trying to hide the flush that he knows is burning up his cheeks - he’s trying not to look at your breasts, framed by your crossed arms. Trying not to think of your ass in those trousers, the taper of your hips, the cunt he suddenly can’t not imagine filling.

“Oh, is you a gentleman? A dashing outlaw with ladies falling in his lap from here to Armadillo?” You point at him, pressing your finger into his chest, gritting your teeth as your self-righteousness and hackles both rise.

For once, he’s silent. For once in the whole goddamn time you’ve known him, he’s given you an opening. Seize it. Take the enemy down. Merciless. Just like shootin’.

“Bet you couldn’t please a lady even if you was the one being paid.” Your voice lowers as you go in for the kill.

To his credit, Arthur resurges with sputtering indignation, pushing you several steps backward until your back slams against the cabin wall. Your eyes widen in surprise.

“Christ alive, the mouth on you. How’s about I shut you up by givin’ you somethin’ to fill it?”

With his hands clamped on your shoulders and his large frame looming over yours, it’s not fear that you feel. Not that he’s going to hurt you, or turn you in. Something more profound than that. Something that shoots to your very core.

“I’d like to see you try.” You hiss at him, and see his jaw work in frustration, “Probably can’t even make a woman come.”

His thigh immediately rams forward, parting your legs as his hands fly to your hips, lifting you several inches above the ground, you yelp as he presses up against your core.

“I’m gonna make you eat them words, missy.” He hisses as he leans into your ear.

“Not if I make you come first.” You respond breathily, your hand moving to cup at the seam of his pants, grabbing at his burgeoning cock. He grunts and shoves his thigh up higher, and you mewl as it causes you to grind against the hard bone of his femur.

“You’re askin’ fer it.” He grunts as he presses his pelvis against you, his cock hard against your belly. A zing of pleasure shoots through your core in response. He’s not lacking, in any measure. His hands briefly leave your body to pull at the buckle of his gun belt, and the belt clatters to the floor at his feet.

“Yeah,” You grab his collar two-fisted and pull him to you, “I am askin’ fer it.” You parrot back in his drawl, lips inches away from his for just a moment, before you bridge the distance and take his mouth forcefully, not letting him respond as you shove your tongue inside.

He’s not surprised, nor taken off balance, matching your fevered press into his mouth with his own, battling for supremacy as his tongue wrests with yours. You barely feel one of his hands leave your hip and start to work the buttons of your trousers, it's not until he works them open enough to shove his hand down the front of your pants that you groan in surprise into his mouth. His rough, calloused fingers weave their way downwards, under the waistband of your bloomers, and straight to your moistening core, where he slides a long, meaty finger into your cunt, making you mewl.

But you cannot let him win.

Summoning all the fight you have in you, battling against the sweet sound of his hand smacking up against wet skin, your hands shoot down to cup his burgeoning erection through his pants, and he moans as his hips move to press forward into your touch.

You grit your teeth, squeezing your eyes shut as you open his pants, breathing through your nose as he latches his mouth to the side of your neck, slipping his middle finger inside you, making you curse under your breath as you finally reach your goal. You nearly rip his pants open and fish his hard cock out, your fingers wrapping around it as you begin to pump his shaft, desperate to make him feel as helpless as he’s making you feel.

Arthur moans needily against your neck, rolling his hips, and losing his rhythm as he rocks his hand into you. You smile as your head tilts back, pleased at yourself that you’ve met him and matched him.

It would not be for long, though. He retracts his hands and finds your hips again, and the next thing you know, you’re lifted in the air, caught off guard, and instinctually wrap your legs around his waist as he walks you both the several steps to the table. One of his hands moves to your lower back, keeping you upright, as he lays you down and spreads you out on the flat surface.

The gunslinger leans over and captures your lips again as he starts to work your trousers and bloomers down your waist, over the swell of your ass that you raise in the air to help him. You have the wherewithal to kick your boots off as he works your pants down your thighs, standing to his full height as he peels them off you completely, leaving your lower half bare to his gaze. Your tapered hips, glistening folds, wet and ready for him.

You take advantage of his dumb-struck stare to unhook his suspenders from the front of his pants, yanking them down over his hips to let them rest above his knees.

Wasting no time, before you know he’s going to catch you, you wrap one hand around his shaft and cup his testicles with the other, squeezing both gently as he groans, his hands holding himself up as he leans above you, his hips starting to thrust forward.

It's only a matter of time. Only a matter of time before his eyes open, hands snap to your hips, and you’re yanked bodily forward, ass nearly hanging off the table, and you let go of his member as he presses forward, the head of his cock touching your wet folds and making you both moan aloud.

“Still askin’ fer it?” He pants, and all you can do is moan in response and shake your head in the affirmative, spreading your legs for him.

Arthur immediately slides his cock all the way in, until the chestnut curls at the base of his cock meet the dark hair over your cunt, and you cannot help but to mewl, watching as he slowly withdraws and presses in again. Your legs spread even wider as both of you can’t look away from the sight: his long, hard shaft glistening with your slick, disappearing into your body.

One of his hands moves from your hip to splay beneath your abdomen and presses down hard, he moans in appreciation as he can feel himself through your skin as he buries his cock in your cunt again. And again. And again. You fall back from your elbows completely onto your back, the pressure of him making you gasp and whine.

Fuck, this is where you hurtle toward that point of no return, there’s no holding back the wave of pleasure that threatens to drown you as Arthur pounds himself into your hips. There’s no winning or losing anymore, there is just the chasing of that pleasure.

You’re cresting, back beginning to arch uncontrollably as he pumps into you hard and fast. You don’t give a shit about losing, because you’re wrung so tightly you’re about to snap, needy whines escaping your throat as you squeeze your eyes shut, unable to stop tears from overstimulation from spilling down your cheeks.

The head of Arthur’s cock keeps hitting that spot in your cunt that makes you want to die in pleasure, his large hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

You can barely recognize the shriek you give as your own, and the grunts in return, fucking you harder through your release. Your spasming, clenching, shaking release.

“Yes, yes,” Arthur grits out. The broken syllables of his name escape your mouth as you come, he thrusts deep inside of you and you gush warm slick around his length.

He immediately groans, loudly, clenching your hips hard as he jerks himself from you, painting your mound white with arcs of his spend landing in your dark pubic hair. Arthur pants, not letting go of your hips as you at least have the wherewithal to lean up on your elbows again.

“Think…” he rasps, voice sex-hoarse and breathless, “I win.”

A smile cracks from your lips as you tighten your legs around his hips, drawing him closer.

“Best…” you pant, “Two outta three.”

#red dead redemption 2 #red dead fanfic #arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x female reader #red dead fandom #rdr2 #twolafic #tumblr prompt #red dead smut #arthur morgan x reader

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cosurmqne · 3 months

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01 — a short life of trouble

[ RDR2 X fem reader , 2334 words ] — next ✶

rhodes was a quiet town at the best of times. as much as the pompous sherrif, mr leigh gray, liked to juice up his line of work, the most action this collection of run-down buildings saw was the same petty feud between two families that was seemingly everlasting. an alleyway punch up after a night of drinking, perhaps even a few shots on the outskirts of town; this was all that was worth talking about amongst its residents, whatever distracted them from their lungs filling with red dust kicked up by horses and the sun drying up their almost forgotten patch of land in the valley of lemoyne.

when dutch van der linde first rode into the town, he felt at home, a welcome sight for the conman. it was a clean slate, filled with nooks and crannies that he could infiltrate and manipulate at his will. the townsfolk were stupid, the law even more so; it was a perfect combination to have some fun. it was no surprise to the rest of his gang that in no time at all, he was already sitting pretty on the porch of the sheriffs office, hand rested on the shoulder of sheriff gray himself. and lets not forget, with a gleaming deputy badge pinned firmly on his chest.

his main confidants, arthur morgan and hosea matthews, agreed that there was an opportunity for control here, to take what they needed and disappear before anyone in rhodes knew what had hit them, or that they were to blame. they were, after all, outlaws. on the run from forces beyond their capabilities. it only took a matter of days for the rest of their gang to settle in and set themselves up once again in a temporary camp to call home, finding a location south of the town in a secluded grassy plain. it was close to town, but still hidden unless you knew the right tracks to follow.

placing himself firmly amongst the law had led to dutch walking freely around town, a feeling he had not been able to experience in months, perhaps even years. still in a state of high alert (one that never seemed to leave), he allowed himself to look less frequently over his shoulder, not analyse every face he saw or mentally count how many weapons the men around him may have on them at any given moment. occupational hazards had ingrained this behaviour into him since a young age, but at least he could leave the confines of his camp more confident than he had in a long while.

arthur and himself rode down the now familiar dirt road towards the sunbaked town, passing dry fields and even nodding at passers by. dutch chuckled slightly, “we are living it up now son! look at me, look at us!”

arthur let himself crack a smile, “yup, i don’t know how you manage to squeeze your way into situations like these but …. thank goodness. everyone at camp seems settled in, happy even.”

dutch turned to the outlaw riding next to him, “what did i tell you arthur. i have a plan. it’s working. these fools are just the beginning.” he raised his hand to gesture to rhodes, now larger on the horizon and full of morning activity. people entering the train station to the right, some riding through to perhaps visit some of the general stores throughout. the local saloon would even start filling up with its regular drunks soon enough , even this early in the day.

“now,” dutch continued, “you break off to the left here and go visit our dear friend trelawny. last i heard he’s living amongst thieves in old trailers on the outskirts of town, see what kind of information he’s kicked up these past couple of weeks. meanwhile, i’ll go catch up with our great protector.” he placed an exaggerated hand on the deputy badge his chest, chuckling once again, “this sheriff’s perhaps a greater fool than even uncle.”

arthur laughed then let out a sigh, “fine, but next time you deal with trelawny. who knows what scheme he’s going to wrap me into.” with a kick to his horse, he rode away from dutch, leaving him to continue riding deeper into town.

hitching his loyal arabian in front of of the sheriffs office, he entered the building oozing the charisma and confidence that any man would dream to have. within ten minutes, he left holding official papers and a smug look on his face. mr gray had so graciously given him a tip off about some illegal moonshiners east of rhodes, the only instruction? to eradicate the men; any means necessary, just get the job done.

this translated to only mean two things to dutch; free booze and easy money.

eager to return to camp and start planning this ‘offical raid’ with a few extra men, he jumped back onto his horse and slowly started to make his way back home. shoving the papers into the saddle bag on his left, he allowed himself to light a cigar and let out a low sigh while he held it loosely between his calloused fingers. delicious and familiar smoke filling his lung, with an oblivious town in front of him. things were looking damn good …

just as he passed the bloody faced butcher hacking at a deer, he heard the first gunshot.

instantly alert, his still-lit cigar hit the dirt road and both hands were like stone by his sides, each ready to uncap the holsters beneath them at a moments notice. he scanned the area, turning his head every which way, already looking towards the hiding places he had mentally noted weeks earlier in which someone could potentially hide. just as he was straining to hear any sort of noise, he heard yet another gunshot within seconds.

habits had made him duck closer to his saddle, his horse becoming skiddish as dutch looked around once again. the townspeople were on high alert also, most crouched or back indoors after a few shouts. seconds passed before dutch realised that the shots were coming from out of town entirely, the echoes ringing out from where he guessed was the thicker forest that stood in the distance. these past months had made him assume every gun was pointed towards him, each loud noise, bullet or not, had made him instantly ready to fight and assuming the worst.

sitting straighter and tightening the grip around his reins to calm his horse, he figured the folk around him had concluded the same, most standing up and even waving their hands with a dismissive gesture. he had come to realise that in this town, if the shooting wasn’t at your front door, it wasn’t your problem ….

‘righteous people, truly ….’ he jokingly thought to himself.

another shot ran out from the trees, causing the remaining birds in the area to fly over the canopy. flinching less than before, dutch started his horse into a gallop once again, leaving rhodes to deal with their own backyard business. whoever it was, dutch figured he would rather it be their problem than his. moving closer towards the tree line on the dirt track to camp, he did let himself wonder what all the ruckus was about…. then it hit him …. that sinking feeling that usually rested at the bottom of his chest.

arthur …..

quickening his horse, dutch cut off the path and ran towards the forest. ‘trelawny….. that damn fool.’ he thought, his mind racing towards conclusion that he hoped weren't true. ‘who knows what kind of business he put those two up too. those gunshots could have been from anybody … but ….’

breaking through the tree line, he scanned the area on horseback, looking on the ground for tracks, broken branches, blood strains, anything. moving closer to where he guessed the shots were coming from, he got down from his horse and continued on foot. each step he took was barely audible despite the dry leaf litter below, his right hand once again hovering steady above the shining revolver on his hip… he could smell gunpowder in the air, this must be the place.

“arthur? son are you here?” he let himself say aloud in shouted whisper, scanning the trees for any sign of movement. the area was thick with stumps, boulders, tree trunks and bushes, all bending and layering into a green and brown mess. it was eerily quiet, most animals being scared into running with all the noise, despite a few birds chirping as they bravely returned to their nests so soon.

eyes, ears and mind alert, ducth finally saw something, a body laying face down a few feet in front of him. he let himself rush over and sighed as he realised it belonged to a stranger. not just a stranger he realised, but an o’driscoll! ‘yes’ he thought, ‘green vest, rusty gun… missing teeth… good riddance.’

looking up he saw another body laying in a flower bed to the right. both men were huge in stature, undoubtably lacking brains, but still a force not taken on without guts and skill. looking down at the o’driscoll closest to him once again, he noticed that he had a gunshot wound, right in the middle of his forehead…. impressive. walking over to the other, he had the same. a clean and fatal shot. perhaps this was arthurs handy-work?

he stood and continued deeper into the forest, calling for arthur once again. he passed yet another dead o’driscoll, taking the satisfaction of stepping right over his body and observing yet another perfect headshot. three gunshots, three wounds, three dead o’driscolls. mystery solved.

right?

“arthur, where the hell are you boy?” he called once again. perhaps trelawney and himself were long gone, away from the scene and disappeared before the real trouble of the law or more o’driscolls showed up. or maybe they were never here at all?

dutch stood straighter and felt himself relax. whatever happened here seemed to be over, and his two men were nowhere to be seen. just as he figured he may as well leave this be and head on his way, he heard the snap of a branch behind him. turning around in an instant, hand already holding the loaded revolver in his hand, he froze as he came face to face with the barrel of a rusted repeater.

“dont. move.”

a woman was standing before him. her hair was matted, eyes wide, skin covered in who knows what but hands steady as a rock, eyebrows furrowed in fierce concentration. she was wearing a blouse, ripped and stained dark with what dutch assumed to be blood, her skirt torn and thinning. the boot she wore seemed three sized too big, a second gun on her side attached with nothing but a thin rope tied around her waist.

dutch slowly raised his palms in line with his shoulders, gun pointed upwards, “miss? i-” he started.

“don’t. who the hell are you.” she spoke stern but her voice sounded exhausted. she hid the shakiness well.

“i’m ….” he trailed off, “miss, did you kill those men back there?”

she stood unmoving. “so what if i did. those are bad men.… now answer my question.”

“oh i know,” he ignored her still, moving his right hand to touch his chest and daring to take a small step forward. “i’m glad they're laying face down in the dirt where they belong.” he paused. “thats some fine shooting you must have had.”

she looked him up and down with a quick glance, eyebrows furrowed, “what are you playing at…”

dutch dared once again to take a step forward, eyes glued to the woman with an unwavering confidence, despite the gun pointed right at his chest. “you asked who i am? my name is dutch van der line. i’m somewhat of a… outlaw around here. cast off and trying to survive….. i sense that you can relate to that.”

the woman seemed to slip out of her fierce gaze for a split second, her arms lowering slightly then snapping back into position, even taking a cowering step backwards as the stranger in front of her continued forward.

“i’m sure you're tired miss, hungry?” dutch continued. “when was the last time you laid to rest without keeping one eye open…” he moved closer still, his steps more frequent. “trust me, i’ve been there. i can help. we can help you.”

the woman stared, she didn’t know what to say, what to do, what to respond. and dutch knew it. he had her just how he wanted.

he was close enough now to raise his hand and place it on the barrel of her gun, slowly lowering it and moving in. he spoke low, calm and considerate. “miss… if you come with me, i can give you all these things. we have a camp, not too far from here. we already have a common enemy it seems,” he gestured behind him to the dead o’driscolls, even smiling slightly as he turned back, “it doesn't matter who you are, what you’ve done, just … trust me.”

the woman was staring unblinkingly at dutch, but he could tell that she had no choice, she seemed so exhausted, guessed she had nowhere to go. how long had see been alone for? was the dried blood that painted her clothes her own, or some other dead fool? “please miss, whats you’re name.”

“y/n.” she responded weakly, finally letting her arms drop by her sides. it seemed despite her unmoving position, she was struggling to hold up the heavy gun, her arms and strength exhausted. she allowed herself to let her guard down, her legs making her sway, shoulders slumped. it was all too much.

ducth let himself touch her shoulder, holding her small frame in his skilled hands as he let out a high whistle, calling his horse towards them.

“come on y/n. you’re safe now.”

#rdr2 x reader #rdr2 #rdr #red dead redemption 2 x reader #arthur morgan x reader #dutch van der linde #red dead redemption #arthur morgan #rdr2 oneshots #arthur morgan x you

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allzelemonz · 8 months

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Hate Feels Good: Javier Escuella X Male Reader

Pronouns: None Mentioned, Implied masculinity Physical Sex: AMAB Rating: E/Smut, violence Warnings: Hate sex, rough sex, anal fingering, anal sex, marking, bite marks, kissing, insults, bottom Javier and top Reader Summary: After a job gone wrong you’re stuck in a cabin with the member of the gang you happen to despise the most, Javier Escuella.

In retrospect, it was a terrible idea to listen to Uncle. The man and his terminal lumbago got a tip, slinked away to let everyone else risk their necks, and now you’re stuck hiding from the law until the heat dies down. Might not be so bad if everyone stayed together, but Charles and Arthur were on the other side of the tracks and there was no time to get the horses over. So you’re trapped with Javier and the nagging field of hatred that envelopes both of you.

You’re not entirely sure where it comes from and you don’t really have the energy to care. Javier is annoying, a bully at best. He might play the guitar with a pretty voice but that doesn’t earn him praise. Most days, you avoid him, but it’s not most days.

“Third patrol I’ve seen go by.” He says, peeking out of the window. “Might be here ‘til morning.”

You sigh, your head leaning back against the wall as you sit by the door. He looks at you, giving a dismissive expression before he walks back to the small bed and falls into it. You look up at the ceiling, mind playing through the robbery. You and Charles took the cargo cars, Javier and Arthur took the passengers. Everything was fine until…

“Who shot first back there?” You ask, looking at Javier. “Didn’t see any law until a few minutes after the first shot.”

Javier doesn’t move as he speaks. “There was a deputy, I shot him.”

“Couldn’t have used those knives you like so much, kept it quiet?”

“You trying to blame me?” He asks, sitting up.

You shrug. “Law wouldn’t have heard us if you were a little quieter.”

“You wanna start something, puto?”

“Shut up, Escuella.”

He stands. “Why don’t you make me?”

“Fuck off.” You sigh, your head falling back against the wall again.

You don’t hear his footsteps as he nears, but the knife on your throat and his fist balling into your shirt makes you more than aware that he’s kneeled down to your level. This isn’t the first time, but Dutch is usually around to break you up.

“You’re always starting something with me, cabrón.” He presses his blade into your skin enough to sting. “Maybe I will use the knife. Keep it quiet so no one knows, say you got shot by the law.”

You stare at him, halfway scared he may actually slit your throat. “Watch your temper, Escuella.”

“Watch your mouth, asshole.”

For a moment, your eyes are locked as you glare at each other and for a split second you feel a trickle go down your neck but before you can register much of it, Javier surges forward and forces his lips to yours. You still, unable to register a man you hate kissing you, and it gives him the opportunity to remove his knife and replace it with his hand. He grips your throat, squeezing as he guides you to the floor with his lips not leaving yours for more than a second. You begin to oblige him, kissing back against his soft lips and easily opening your legs for him to settle between.

“Only thing you’re gonna be saying is my name, puto.” He mutters against your lips.

You hate that you can’t hold back the gasp as his hips grind into yours, feeling his dick through his pants as it brushes yours. It makes him smile before he pushes his tongue past your teeth. For a moment you think about biting down on it, but you don’t want him to stop what he’s doing for a second, instead you settle for digging your nails through his shirt as you grip hard at his waist and pull him against you more.

His hand leaves your throat and he starts at your shirt, fumbling for buttons until he can press his hands against your chest. They wander over your pecs, squeezing lightly all around until he trails down to your pants. You get a moment to focus as he moves to kiss your neck, it ends up being more biting than kissing. Your fingers fly over the buttons of his vest, eager to see his thin frame without clothes in the way. He helps you, sitting up to pull off his vest and shirt while his hips move down against you.

“You feel bigger than I thought you’d be.” He mutters as he presses down against you and grinds back and forth.

“Shit, Escuella.” You breathe, your head falling back as your dick rubs against the hard fabric of your pants.

You look up in time to see him toss his shirt away, his thin shoulders moving as he does and making you thrust up idly. He covers you again, adjusting this time so he’s sitting on your waist, his ass now grinding against you as he hunches to meet your lips again. Your teeth clash a bit before he lets you explore his mouth this time and your hands move to his hair to tug out the ponytail so you can pull at it. He groans when you do, digging himself back against your clothed dick.

It seems you have both forgotten why you started this in the first place.

Javier sits up again, fumbling with his pants as you move to do the same. He pulls his off entirely, leaving him bare above you, but he stops you from removing yours. Instead, he settles back down and presses his fingers to your mouth as he returns to biting at your neck. You take them slowly, coating them in spit and groaning around them when Javier starts to bite at your chest instead. After a particularly harsh bite to your collarbone, he pulls his fingers from your mouth and you watch with great interest as he moves them behind himself.

And he whimpers when he pushes his own fingers inside of his hole.

Your mouth falls open at the sight. His back arches, his free hand resting on your stomach for support as he fucks himself open on top of you. You can’t decide where to look because everywhere is a damn sight. His face is scrunched in focus as little noises escape his lips, but his hand digs at the skin of your stomach and it looks so damn good that you want to see it around your dick, but the movements of his hips are what you settle on. He makes little ruts as his hand does most of the work to fuck himself open for you, but the little twitches are enough to keep you invested. His dick bounces slightly as he moves, slapping up against his stomach lightly with each little jut of his hips. Maybe you’d get to see the real show some other time. The thought of Javier spread out in front of you, his legs open so you can see his hole stretch as his fingers do their work, it makes your breath hitch.

“Like what you see, puto?” He breathes.

Your eyes move back up to his face and you meet his eyes. Even if you didn’t think you were about to fuck him, the fact that Javier is staring down at you while he fucks himself on his fingers is enough to make you happy with the night. But you still hate the bastard, even if he looks pretty in the low light as he bounces.

“I’ve seen better.” You mutter the lie, making sure your voice doesn’t betray you.

Javier leans down, draping himself over you and connecting your lips in a harsh kiss again. He doesn’t stop fucking himself, his hips still moving with his hand and making his dick drag along your stomach. You press your hands harshly onto his ass and pull enough to spread his cheeks apart, making him whine. His arm brushes against yours as he picks up his pace and his lips move to your ear.

“Come on, puto, fuck me.” He whispers, his voice too high a pitch to resist.

You bend your leg, pushing to give yourself the momentum to roughly flip Javier onto the floor. His hand leaves his hole as he catches himself and he rolls onto his stomach, not resisting as you climb behind him. Your hands grip his hips and he arches his back automatically like some whore. For a moment you just look down at his fucked open hole, his cheeks hiding most of it. You move your hands to spread them again so you can look properly. And damn, Javier looks so open and fucked with a bit of wet spit around his rim that you can’t help it when your hand fumbles for your pants.

You’re lined up in a matter of seconds and pushing inside. You watch every inch disappear inside of the man beneath you, slowly pulling his hips back into you and making him do the work. Javier moans shamelessly, not hiding a hint of the whorish sound. He props himself up on his elbows and presses back until you’re fully settled inside of him. If it was anyone else, you’d let them adjust, but after all the teasing and your underlying sick desire to hurt him a little, you start fucking him right away.

Javier has to dig his arms and level his shoulders to keep himself up. You snap your hips into him, your balls slapping against him and jostling in a way that feels so damn good when paired with Javier’s tight heat. Your nails dig into his hips more with every thrust and you speed up with every whimper and moan Javier lets out. His arms give out after a while and he slumps onto the hard floor, his hips only held up by you as you continue to drive into him. You don’t stop him when he reaches under himself and starts pumping, you just watch the obscene motion of his arm in tandem with your dick disappearing into him.

He releases first, his voice high as he whines something out in Spanish. His arm slows gradually and he focuses on rocking back into you, seemingly unbothered by any kind of overstimulation. You lean into him a bit for your last few thrusts, pushing him down against the floor so you can bury yourself in deep as you cum. You give idle, tiny thrusts as you’ve both settled flat and you kiss his shoulder mindlessly.

Javier’s breathing is heavy as he groans. “Fuck you, puto.”

It sounds half hearted and you only suck on his neck in response. He doesn’t do anything to stop it, letting his body stay limp underneath you. You hum against his skin and nuzzle your nose slightly into his back, not fully wanting to leave his warmth no matter how much you despise the bastard.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #red dead redemption x male reader #red dead redemption x reader #x reader #x male reader #javier escuella #javier escuella x reader #javier escuella x male reader

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moeitsu · 17 days

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The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Summary: Kate and Arthur share a tender moment in the quiet of the night.

Ao3 Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Tags: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character, Widowed, Original Character, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby Arthur Morgan, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Ch 9 - A Hundred Months Have Passed

After a few days had passed, the ebb and flow of camp life settled back into its usual rhythm. The air buzzed with the familiar hum of activity—girls diligently tending to chores, men venturing out in search of employment. Micah, having wisely refrained from his lewd remarks, seemed to steer clear of Kate since the encounter with her blade at his throat.

Kate, ever the reliable hand, lent herself where needed: scrubbing alongside Mary-Beth and Tilly, deftly stitching with Abigail, and even lending a hand in Pearson's kitchen to ease Sadie's burdens. The oppressive heat of Lemoyne clung to everyone like a stifling cloak, making afternoons feel interminable. Yet, the proximity of the lake provided a much-needed reprieve, promising a cool respite at the day's end.

Arthur slipped back into the role of the camp's indispensable jack-of-all-trades. Strauss had once again tasked him with money lending duties, a responsibility Kate chose to abstain from this time. Arthur, sensing her unspoken concerns, pledged a new approach—doing things properly this time. His efforts brought a smile to Kate's lips; she recognized his earnest attempts to turn a new leaf, even amidst his continued forays into stagecoach heists and homestead robberies.

This morning, Dutch and Hosea, accompanied by John and Arthur, ventured into Rhodes at the deputy's behest, hopeful for legitimate work. Kate felt a surge of pride knowing they were earnestly striving for honest wages, unaware of Dutch's clandestine designs. Rumors of a longstanding feud between the affluent Gray and Braithwaite families had piqued Dutch's interest, his mind already scheming.

While the boys were occupied, Kate found herself free from chores, engaging in a serene game of dominos with Tilly and Javier. The late afternoon light filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows across the camp.

“I don’t like being this far south,” Tilly commented, her voice tinged with fear. “I feel like we ain’t safe here. I ain’t safe here.”

“You’ll be alright, Tilly. We’re all looking out for you,” Kate reassured her.

Tilly sighed and shook her head solemnly. “This lot don’t like folk like me, Kate. My mother was a slave until she was 15 years old.”

“We’ll keep you safe, I promise,” Kate urged.

Javier, who had been quietly playing dominoes with them, placed his domino and joined the conversation. “I don’t think these folks like anybody who isn’t white, if I’m being honest,” he said with a dry laugh. “I’ve been called ‘greaser’ by almost every pendejo in this country.”

Kate sighed as she played her domino, earning a few points. “This town is full of a bunch of drunks stuck in the past. They never recovered from the war, and they’d rather hang onto their grievances than move on.”

Tilly placed her last domino, earning no points, and stood up with a grunt of frustration. “Yeah well, I just hope we don’t stay here too long. We’re supposed to be going back west, not south.” She walked away, her steps heavy with frustration.

Now alone with Javier at the small wooden table, Kate leaned back and blew out a breath. The air was hot and heavy, weighing down any motivation to work.

“Is that why you haven’t left camp much?” She inquired, her voice tinged with concern. “Because of the way people are treating you down here?”

Javier shrugged nonchalantly. “Sorta, but it doesn’t really bother me that much.”

Kate’s expression softened. She hadn’t known Javier well, but since the night of the raiders and borrowing his guitar, he had opened up more. She sensed he was a quiet presence, always listening but rarely speaking. She also noticed how much it bothered him when other gang members picked on him, especially Micah and Bill.

She chuckled softly. “Well, you certainly have a lot of patience. I’m amazed you haven’t stabbed Micah yet.”

Javier grinned and met Kate’s gaze. “Oh, I’ve thought about it many times.”

He leaned back, stabbing his knife into the table. “People like Micah don’t scare me. You know, it’s been five years since I left Mexico. Those men chasing me, I still have nightmares about them. Those are scary men.”

Kate listened intently, intrigued by his story.

“If I go back there, I’m as good as dead. They killed my mother, and I mourn her every day. But I never got to bury her. My sister married a man and ran away, and I hope she’s safe, but I’ll never know for sure.”

“Why were those men chasing you?” Kate asked quietly, curious about his past and how he ended up in the gang.

Javier scoffed, memories fueling his frustration. “My crime? My crime was wanting food and fairness—for myself and for my people. That’s why they hunt me. When I came here, I found that it was not so different.”

Kate nodded in understanding. “This land is wild, far beyond being ‘free.’ I know that as much as anybody, and like most, I learned the hard way.”

“Everyone here steals and lies. The only thing they do better here is make you think it’s not that way,” Javier said, his frustration evident. “Mexico could be a land of plenty, but those cabróns in our government won’t even pay us a fair wage.”

He looked at Kate with a sad expression. “I know I’m a thief. But at least I don’t steal the lives and hopes of others.”

Kate spoke before he could leave. “Do you think you’ll ever go back?”

He shook his head sadly, “I’ll be shot on site if I do.” Javier left her with those words.

Kate sat quietly, her eyes roaming over the camp. In the short time she’d been with this group, she had come to know many of their stories, and each one tugged at her heartstrings. There was no joyous reason that a band of misfits like them would ride together, yet the more she learned about each member, the more she understood their pain. They were all seeking a way to escape, all fleeing from something in their pasts. Some were orphaned, like Arthur and John, taken in by Dutch and Hosea. They were provided for, cared for, and yet, Kate couldn't help but doubt the sincerity of that care.

Dutch hadn't spoken to Kate since they arrived at Clemens Point. She wasn’t seeking an apology for Micah’s actions—Dutch wasn’t responsible for that—but his silence troubled her. During her time in the camp, she had observed how Dutch treated Arthur. He was dismissive yet domineering, always assuring Arthur of his position as his right-hand man, yet often prioritizing conversations with Micah. When Arthur approached Dutch for conversation, he always seemed preoccupied, only granting him full attention when there was work to be done and money to be made. Kate sensed a tension between them, a dynamic that left her uneasy.

As she gazed across the camp, Kate couldn’t shake the feeling that Dutch’s intentions for their group's safety and future were not as altruistic as they seemed. She wondered if their pursuits were leading them toward a better life or simply deeper into trouble.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Arthur shook his head, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You know, I think you have finally lost your mind," he remarked, eyeing Dutch with amused disbelief.

The boys had ridden into Rhodes earlier that afternoon, on a peculiar mission orchestrated by Dutch. The notorious gang leader had struck an unlikely alliance with Sheriff Gray, a key player in the ongoing feud between Rhodes' wealthiest families, the Grays and the Braithwaites. Their task? To reclaim stolen moonshine from the Braithwaites, which had found its way into the hands of Lemoyne raiders.

Dutch, ever the showman, had orchestrated their involvement under the guise of "helping the law." Now, adorned with shiny silver stars that marked them as deputized lawmen, the outlaws-turned-vigilantes cut an absurd figure in the bustling town.

"Amongst these drunkards, hillbillies, and slavers... good honest thieves like us, we’re bound to be moralizers in a place like this!" Dutch declared, arms outstretched as if claiming dominion over the entire town.

As they wrapped up loading the stolen moonshine into the wagon, John and Hosea offered to take the wagon to a secluded spot near camp, assuring the Sheriff that they would take care of "disposing" of the last of the moonshine. The Sheriff nodded knowingly, pocketing a couple of jugs for himself.

Before Dutch and Arthur departed, they couldn't resist indulging in their hard-earned spoils, taking more than a few swigs of the fiery alcohol to celebrate their successful mission before making their way back to camp.

“Hey you know what, why don’t I race you back to camp,” Dutch quipped, saddling his horse in an unsteady manor.

Arthur, equally unsteady on his feet, chuckled and climbed into Belle's saddle. "You're on," he agreed, a mischievous glint in his eye.

Later that evening, Arthur stumbled back into camp, his usually confident steps a bit less steady. The setting sun bathed the campsite in a warm orange glow, adding to the relaxed atmosphere. A faint scent of moonshine lingered on his breath, a testament to the drinks he and Dutch had indulged in before returning.

Kate looked up from where she sat near the fire, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. "Welcome back, Deputy Morgan. Looks like you've found yourself a new career path," she teased, giving a playful flick to the shiny silver star on his chest.

Arthur chuckled, brushing off her comment as he settled beside her by the fire. "Ah, quit it. I ain't cut out for lawman duties."

He turned slightly towards Kate, a warm glow in his eyes fueled by both the alcohol and the comfort of her presence. "How was your day, Kate? You tired of being surrounded by outlaws yet?" he asked, steering the conversation.

Kate smiled warmly, her eyes reflecting genuine contentment. "Honestly, Arthur, I've never been more grateful for the company," she admitted, her voice softening with sincerity. "After so long on my own, it's nice to be part of something, even if it's a band of outlaws."

Arthur nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames of the fire. Despite the daily lively chatter and the camaraderie of the gang, a pang of loneliness tugged at his heart. He had always been surrounded by people, yet somehow, he often felt a deep sense of solitude. The only time he felt seen, felt solace, was when he was with Kate. Her presence made him light up, whether it was a fleeting smile in the morning as they greeted eachother before going about their duties. Or on evenings such as this, when they talked about their day by the fire and simply enjoyed eachothers presence. She calmed the raging storm in his heart, and each day he grew more and more fond of her company.

The warmth of the fire and the alcohol in his belly emboldened him slightly. "Well, if it's all the same to you, Kate, I quite enjoy your company," Arthur admitted, a bashful smile playing on his lips as he shifted closer to her, their shoulders nearly touching.

Kate's eyes sparkled with amusement as she leaned in to meet his gaze. "I'll admit, Arthur, I enjoy your company more than most," she teased, a playful glint in her eyes. "But don't tell the others that," she added with a wink.

Arthur chuckled softly, the sound blending with the crackling of the fire. They settled against the log, warmed by the fire's glow. As the night deepened around them, they shared stories of their day. Arthur recounted their new duties as lawmen and the complexities of the feud between the two families, outlining Dutch's plan to navigate the situation without causing undue trouble.

The sun had long set, casting a cool, gentle darkness over the camp. Most of the gang had retired for the night, leaving only the crackling fire and the symphony of nighttime sounds—crickets chirping and frogs croaking.

Amidst the tranquil atmosphere, the peace was shattered by the distant voices of Abigail and John, their argument drifting from their tent and cutting through the night's quiet. Arthur and Kate exchanged a knowing look, their conversation momentarily interrupted by the reminder of the discord that often simmered beneath the surface of their makeshift family.

Arthur sighed, his expression a mixture of resignation and empathy as Abigail's voice rose in frustration. "Why don't you use that tiny brain of yours? Whatever you think is right and proper, do the exact opposite! Then, you'll raise a man!" Her words were hushed, as if she were trying to contain her anger despite the intensity of her tone.

John's retort came swiftly, equally filled with annoyance. "Just like your mama did? Raise a real man, like you?" His jab was met with a sharp slap from Abigail, the sound echoing through the camp.

Kate winced, noticing Arthur pinch the bridge of his nose in response to the escalating argument. Before she could interject, the soft patter of footsteps approached rapidly. In a flash, Jack emerged from his tent, clad in nothing but a nightgown, and flung himself into Arthur's lap.

Unfazed by the sudden intrusion, Arthur pulled Jack close, his voice gentle and soothing. "Hey kiddo, can't sleep?" he asked, his tone calming.

Jack nodded against his uncle's shoulder. "Mama is mad at Pa again," he murmured, his voice small and weary. Turning his head slightly, he glanced up at Kate. "Hi, Auntie Kate," he greeted quietly.

"Hey, little man," Kate responded warmly, brushing a stray hair from his eyes as his cheek rested against Arthur's shoulder.

As the voices of John and Abigail rose again, Jack buried his face against Arthur. Concern flickered in Arthur's eyes as he glanced at Kate, who suddenly had an idea.

"Why don't we go get Lorena ready for the night? You wanna help, Jack?" Kate suggested, offering a diversion to distract Jack from the tension brewing between his parents.

With a silent nod, Arthur rose from his seat, cradling little Jack in his strong arms. Kate couldn't help but watch the scene unfold before her. His towering figure enveloped the small boy with an unexpected tenderness and care. As Arthur held Jack close, his protective embrace painted a stark contrast to the tough exterior he often projected.

In that moment, Kate glimpsed a side of Arthur that stirred her heart. The way he handled Jack with such gentleness and love sparked a yearning within her. She imagined how Arthur might have been as a father—patient, kind, and devoted.

The campfire's warm glow cast a soft light on them as they moved away from the escalating voices. Arthur's features softened as he whispered reassuring words to Jack, his gaze filled with warmth and understanding.

Kate fell into step beside them, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight of Arthur's caring demeanor. Despite his gruff reputation, she sensed a depth of compassion that drew her in, melting away the rough edges.

As they approached Lorena, her mare nickered in recognition, sensing familiar company. Kate reached out, her hand running over the sleek mane of the horse affectionately. Before she could retrieve her brush from the saddlebag, Jack, nestled in Arthur's arms, spoke up with innocent curiosity.

"Does she like it when you sing her lullabies?" His voice was small and earnest.

Kate's smile softened at the question. "Yes, she does. It helps calm her down and makes her feel safe, knowing I'm right here to sing her to sleep," she replied, her voice warm with affection for the horse.

Jack looked up at her, a hint of sadness in his tone. "Mama used to sing me lullabies, but she says I'm too old for them now."

Arthur chuckled softly, his hand rubbing Jack's back comfortingly. "Well, you ain't a baby anymore, Jack. Yer gettin’ older and bigger," he reassured him.

Kate's gaze lingered on Jack as Arthur cradled him in his arms. It felt like a hundred months had passed since she held her own child, since she last sang a lullaby. A pang of longing swept through her. She understood Abigail's perspective—Jack was nearly five years old—but in that moment, Kate would have given anything to sing to her baby again, no matter the age.

Jack's eyes met hers, his innocence shining through. "Can you sing me a lullaby, Auntie Kate?"

Her heart swelled with warmth as she nodded in response. Jack reached out his small arms towards her, and without hesitation, Kate embraced him.

Arthur glanced at Kate, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. He trusted her, but he didn't want to burden her with his nephew's needs. He had already come to terms with taking responsibility for the young child.

"Kate, ya don't have to—" Arthur began.

But Kate interrupted gently, reaching out to take Jack into her arms. "I don't mind at all, Arthur," she said sincerely, her voice warm with compassion.

Kate hadn't held a child since she laid her own in a dark casket with her father. The familiar weight of a child on her hip, his breath against her neck as he nestled his head on her shoulder, brought a mix of comfort and grief. She pushed the painful memories down, focusing on the present moment with Jack in her arms.

Arthur watched with a mixture of admiration and tenderness as Kate held his nephew, her cheek resting against Jack's head. As her eyes closed and she began to sway gently on her feet, rocking him as if he were a newborn, Arthur couldn't help but imagine what she must have been like as a mother—devoted, kind, and filled with love.

Kate started singing softly, her voice carrying a soothing melody into the quiet evening air.

When I was young, younger than before. I never saw the truth hanging from the door,

Now I’m older, see it face to face. Now I’m older, gotta get up, clean the place.

I was green, greener than the hill. Where the flowers grew and the sun shown still.

Now I’m darker than the deepest sea, just hand me down, give me a place to be.

I was strong, strong in the sun, I thought I’d see when the day was done.

Now I’m weaker than the palest blue. Oh, so weak in this need for you.

Arthur studied her features in the soft moonlight, savoring every detail—the graceful movement of her lips as she sang, the way her hair danced in the night breeze. Kate's gentle circles on Jack's back gradually lulled him to sleep, his breathing slowing, arms going limp around her neck. A smile touched Kate's lips, and she continued to hum softly, ensuring Jack remained nestled in slumber.

As Kate swayed, Arthur felt something profound stir within him, a warmth he had never experienced. It was as though her presence kindled a fire in his heart, leading him closer to her warmth. In her company, he felt alive, radiant like the earth basking under the sun, humming with a joyful tune from the lips of a woman. For the first time in years, he began to reflect on all the moments he had missed with his own woman and child.

Kate ceased her humming, her closed eyes and furrowed brow revealing the depth of her emotions. She released a shaky breath before speaking softly to Arthur, her voice laced with vulnerability. "When I held my baby girl for the first time, I saw her future branching out before me. Every possibility filled with something wonderful"

Arthur closed the distance between them, as if to shield her from the memories that still haunted her. Kate nestled her cheek against Jack's head, her voice trembling with unspoken sorrow. "I could have been a good mother," she whispered.

Gently, Arthur brushed his thumb across her cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Kate's eyes fluttered open at his touch, reflecting the moonlight like shimmering pools of emotion. They held unshed tears, a testament to her resilience and the burdens she carried. Despite life's hardships, she fought to maintain her kindness, a quality that only deepened Arthur's admiration.

Moved by the connection between them, Arthur closed the final gap, his lips meeting hers in a silent embrace. The kiss was soft yet filled with unspoken longing, a gentle affirmation of the feelings blossoming between them. The world around them seemed to fade as they shared this intimate moment, each touch and breath carrying the weight of unspoken words and shared emotions.

Kate removed her hand from gently rubbing circles on Jack's back, finding a new warmth against Arthur's cheek. She tilted her face, deepening their kiss as Arthur's arm wound around her waist, drawing her closer. He smelled of moonshine and tobacco, a scent that mingled with the smoky air of the campfire.

As their mouths met, Kate sighed softly, feeling their connection deepen with each tender touch. Arthur's heart raced within his chest, the world around him blurring as if the only anchor to reality was the sensation of her lips against his. Her tongue brushed against his, a silent invitation for more.

Just as the kiss intensified, Jack stirred in his sleep, breaking Arthur from the spell. Reluctantly, he pulled back, his breath slightly labored, a silent turmoil brewing within him.

"Sorry," Arthur murmured, his voice tinged with a mix of desire and uncertainty. "I, um,” he hesitated, “I-I should take Jack back to his ma."

Kate nodded, her eyes reflecting a shared hesitation. "Of course," she replied softly, gently handing the boy back to his uncle.

Arthur carefully settled Jack more securely in his arms. He offered Kate a tender smile, though his eyes betrayed a hint of inner conflict. "G’night, Kate," he said, his voice a mixture of warmth and unease.

"Goodnight, Arthur," she replied, her tone gentle yet tinged with an unspoken question.

With a last lingering glance, Arthur turned and made his way toward Abigail and John's tent, Jack's form cradled protectively against him. As he disappeared into the shadows, Kate stood by her sleepy mare, her heart echoing the silent uncertainty that had clouded the moment.

Later that night, Arthur lay awake on his cot, the memory of their kiss haunting his thoughts. Moonlight filtered through the canvas, casting ghostly shadows around him. The scent of campfire smoke lingered on his clothes, a tangible reminder of the evening's events.

Arthur couldn't shake the yearning that had blossomed between him and Kate, nor the underlying unease that accompanied it. The fleeting intimacy they shared left him grappling with doubts about the future, and more importantly, about himself. He cared deeply for Kate, admired her resilience and kindness, yet the complexities of their lives and the dangers they faced loomed like shadows in his mind.

His own truth ached to be revealed, how he longed to tell her about his own son, but the guilt and shame he carried with the memories clouded all means of opening up. Kate missed her family dearly, that much was painfully obvious to him. He feared if she knew the truth about him, she wouldn’t see him the same. He too had a family once, and his own recklessness cost them their lives. He feared she would not forgive him for being so careless.

Lost in contemplation, Arthur sighed heavily, his thoughts drifting back to Kate's soft lips and the warmth of her touch. He couldn't deny the pull he felt toward her, a desire for connection amidst the chaos of his existence.

In the quiet solitude of his tent, Arthur wrestled with conflicting emotions, uncertain of what lay ahead for them. The night stretched on, filled with unanswered questions and the restless beating of his heart. He reached for his journal, its leather cover worn and familiar, and opened it to a blank page.

With a sketching pencil in hand, he drew an image from memory—the sight of Kate cradling Jack against her cheek. Underneath the tender sketch, he penned his thoughts:

Kate has a way about her that makes a man feel alive. She’s fierce, and she's kind. She’s strong and she’s passionate. She’s utterly beautiful. And she’s too sweet for me.

I kissed her tonight, I don’t really know why. The way she was singin’ and cradlin’ little Jack, it made me think of Eliza and Isaac. For the first time in years, I thought about all the moments I missed because I was off being a fool instead of a father.

I see things still haven't changed. You’ll always be a fool Morgan.

I think I’m falling for Kate. I just hope she can let me down easy. Maybe I’ll just close my eyes on the way down.

Closing his eyes, Arthur tried to still his restless thoughts. He imagined Kate's smile, the curve of her cheek as she cradled Jack, the warmth of her presence against him. The weight of his feelings tugged at him like an anchor, both comforting and disquieting.

With a heavy sigh, Arthur surrendered to the embrace of exhaustion. The world around him faded into darkness, and for a fleeting moment, his turbulent heart found respite in the realm of dreams.

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thedailybullshit · 1 year

Text

RDR2 Incorrect Quotes pt. 30

Hosea: So, can we talk?

Dutch: Sure, about what?

Hosea: One word, two letters. Starts with “U” and ends with “S”.

Dutch: You wanna talk about the United States?

Hosea: *walking out of his tent* Is something burning?

Dutch: *leaning seductively against the table* Only my desire for you.

Hosea: Dutch, the wagon is on fire.

John: I suffered from nosebleeds when I was little. Once I had one so bad I was covered in blood. So I went to go wake Arthur up.

John: He opened his eyes to see a blood-soaked child leaning over him in the dark saying, “Please help.” And to this day I can still hear him screaming.

Arthur: Remember when you dared me to push you into the lake to see if you’d actually drown?

John: No. I said, “Don’t push me into the lake,” and you said, “Don’t tell me what to do, John.”

John: And then you pushed me into the lake.

Arthur:

Arthur: Did you have to stab him?

Sadie: You weren’t there. You didn’t hear what he said to me.

Arthur: What did he say?

Sadie: “What are you going to do? Stab me?”

Javier: That’s fair.

Arthur:

Lenny Joining the Gang:

Lenny: Hey, so a little bit of change of plans. I’m actually not going to college anymore, I’m going to Hell. I’m not that excited.

When He Won’t Be a Dad:

John: And without looking up at me, Hosea just said, “You have the moral backbone of a chocolate eclair.”

Micah, walking up to the Marstons: Hey, how y’a-

Cain: *growls*

Micah: AHHHHH!! GET YOUR FUCKIN’ DOG, BI-

Jack: It don’t bite.

Micah: YES IT DO-

Sadie: Arthur is drawing stick figures holding hands.

Arthur: I call it, “Super-Pal Trio!”

Arthur: *gesturing to the drawing in his journal* This is me, this is Sadie, and I think it’s clear - come on, I mean I’m a bit of an artist.

Charles:

Sheriff: This is none other than Van der Linde’s right-hand man.

Deputy: *gasps* Arthur Morgan? He is a lot scrawnier than I imagined.

Growing teenaged Arthur: *scowling*

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bimrsadler · 1 year

Note

could you do an f!reader who is wealthy and actually decides to become patron to the gang, letting them stay at their manor on the outskirts of Saint Denis? she asks for a personal guard in turn, which she asks High Honor Arthur to fill the role of. She's tiny, petite even (like 4'9"-ish) and very femme but with a sharp, elegant tongue.

she likes to hang out with Arthur and show him the wealthy side of life while he shows her the lifestyle of being out in the country. All the tensions and staring of a rich, unmarried lady out with a rugged outlaw of man? Perfect bait. 👀

Fluffy or NSFW or just sexual tension is okay! Feel free to go all kinds of ways with this if you do take the rq, ty!! Love your work!!

Fortune Favors the Bold

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female reader

Word count: 4,600

Warnings/tags: nsft, use of guns/light violence, high honor Arthur, fluff, mutual pining, unprotected piv, dirty talk, size difference, use of pet names

Notes: you gave me a lot to work with anon so I decided to just have fun and make this a longer one, sorry it took a bit but I hope it’s what you were looking for!

Walking around Saint Denis it was hard not to feel eyes on you wherever you went, you were an odd couple after all.

Couple. It wasn’t a word you ever thought you’d use to describe you and Arthur Morgan. Truthfully you weren’t an actual couple; not in the literal sense anyway, but you did enjoy a partnership of sorts and it felt comfortable enough to call him your friend.

As you explored the streets together your differences could not be any clearer, the sun glinted off the gold around your neck while the only gleam on Arthur was off the cold steel of his revolver.

An air of grace and elegance followed you wherever you went, wealth represented in your high end dresses.

The man at your side the complete opposite.

An air of intimidation and ruggedness followed Arthur, worn clothing indicative of his rough lifestyle.

And of everything about him you found yourself inexplicably drawn to, it was the fact that he towered over you that was most alluring.

Being of high status and short stature — you were an easy target. Meeting the Van der Linde gang for the first time was nerve wracking to say the least, knowing that if they wanted to harm you they could in no time.

But the man who introduced himself as Arthur Callahan with the badge on his vest was clearly not a real deputy, and knowing of the Grays and Braithwaites; you weren’t particularly upset at their scheming.

Before Arthur and Dutch could warn you not to tell anyone — you proposed working together instead.

While they were no doubt dangerous criminals, they were more understanding than you expected and most of the gang fun to be around. Leery of you at first, they knew it was advantageous to have someone of your status on their side, and found there was more to you than how you presented on the outside.

While your family was away, you offered the manor as a safe-house for the gang and they gave you Arthur in return. It would take a lot of bold stupidity to make an attempt on you when a man like him was by your side.

It wasn’t unusual to get curious men asking what a woman like you was doing with a man like Arthur, to which you would warn them to mind their own business. And if they were more brash than curious? Well it didn’t take long for them to learn their mistake when Arthur came over.

Not everyone looked at Arthur like he didn’t belong though. Outlaw or not, he was arrestingly attractive; pulling in wandering eyes from the upper and lower class alike.

People always seemed pleasantly surprised at how well mannered he was as well, greeting passerby’s with a hat tip and a “ma’am,” listening to strangers stories and stopping to pet street dogs. Really since you’d met — he was primarily only a threat to those who were a threat to you.

The two of you grew curious about each other, with your lifestyles and upbringings being so different. Everything about the gang was exciting to you and you cautiously wanted to explore it. Arthur had a harder time admitting he was interested in what your side of life had to offer and felt uncomfortable with how foreign it felt.

But you caught him eyeing the beautiful things in your home, letting his fingertips glide along the piano keys, smirking at the expensive weapons mounted and fine whiskies.

It was the art that he took a particular interest in however. He was shy about it at first, gazing at the framed paintings on the walls wanting to know more about them but too nervous to inquire.

So you would stand beside him and tell him the history of it, of the artist, as he stood scratching his beard intently listening.

“Hmm,” he’d mumble dryly — trying to downplay his curiosity but giving himself away by quickly pointing to the one beside it, “and how ’bout this one?”

Arthur never felt fully comfortable in fancier settings but you loved bringing him to dinners and plays with you. When he lost himself in the dishes and dramas meant for the higher class, he fully enjoyed himself.

You never felt at ease in those situations either though, always needing to show a performative smile and appear proper was exhausting. So after the parties you would surprise Arthur by asking him to take you to a saloon or maybe just a stroll in the woods, and he was more than happy to oblige.

Arthur was hesitant when you asked to take trips with him however; worried you didn’t understand what you were getting into.

“No offense Miss but I don’t think ya know what yer askin’.”

“I may be rich but I’m not dumb — Mister.” You said with a sarcastic hiss. “I’d like to learn.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and agreed reluctantly, clearly assuming you would just be deadweight.

But you were a quick learner, and you enjoyed it.

It was exhilarating learning to shoot and skin, and much to Arthur’s surprise you had no qualms about looting with him or being the lookout on a job.

Your favorite nights however were the ones under the stars and beside the crackling fire. You would take the sounds of the slow moving river and rustling pines over the ramblings of relatives whose only talking points were property prices and fine China, any day.

A truth you were anxiously coming to terms with was the fact that you also loved all of this because of Arthur. You could spend hours listening to the husky timbre of his voice excitedly tell you the stories that only a Hell-raising outlaw could.

And yet he was just as enrapturing while sketching quietly or baby-talking his horse as he brushed and fed it.

This evening in Saint Denis was the culmination of all of those nights of curiosity and company.

You had woken up early that morning, Arthur journaling on the couch as you approached him.

“I have an idea cowboy.”

He closed his journal and raised an eyebrow.

“You guys still need money right? Well you and I could make a killing in Saint Denis…”

Arthur sighed and closed his journal, “meanin’?”

“Without you on my arm I’m an easy target in the wrong part of town. You could hang back and I could just draw them out,” you raised your eyebrows excitedly.

Arthur stood up waving his arms in the air, “absolutely not. You crazy woman?!”

“First of all, we would make a good team. Second, do not call me ‘woman’.”

Arthur seemed to take your scolding to heart, shoulders slumping slightly. “Sorry…”

Walking over to you with a softer tone he continued, “just wouldn’t forgive myself if somethin’ happened to ya. I know yer capable but…these things can be unpredictable.”

“Maybe so, but I trust you. Now c’mon Arthur, live a little,” you teased with a wink.

That was all it took, though he continued complaining about going against his better judgment.

Dolling yourself up in your finest that evening, you stood in front of the mirror — scared and excited.

Arthur came in slowly after a delicate knock. In the reflection you caught him pausing at the sight of you, eyes roaming and expression softening.

“You uh…ya ready?”

“Almost, I just…can’t get this necklace to clasp,” you laughed nervously.

“Oh uh…well lemme help then…”

Arthur’s boots were heavy on the floor but his approach was slow and considerate. Handing him the necklace, he draped it around your front, cold metal brushing against you.

The combination of his warm and broad chest hovering against your back with his calloused fingertips ghosting along the skin of your neck, brought forth goosebumps you hoped he wouldn’t notice.

Watching in the reflection, a slight tremble kept him from joining the two sides of the necklace. “Damn fingers are too big,” he chuckled bashfully.

“It’s okay,” you spoke quietly with a reassuring smile.

Finally it clasped together, the emerald jewel coming to a rest at the swell of your cleavage. Before Arthur stepped back, his knuckles lingered on the nape of your neck as he dragged a fingertip along the golden filigree.

“So…would you steal this from me Arthur?”

“Well, you’d definitely catch my attention,” he said warmly before stepping back.

Trying not to read into Arthur’s response, you absentmindedly adjusted in front of the mirror. “Haven’t worn this dress yet, wasn’t sure if I liked it…”

“Why? Y’look beautiful,” Arthur stated.

You felt a flutter spread in your chest and stomach while watching him fumble with his gunbelt in the mirror.

“I uh,” he cleared his throat and motioned toward the door, “we should get goin’.”

All eyes were on you as your large bodyguard walked protectively by your side. You meandered through the city waiting for nightfall, listening to the street performers and perusing the shop windows.

As the sun dipped below the horizon you and Arthur made your way behind the saloon.

“Now you catch someone’s eye ‘n bring ‘em out here,” Arthur pointed to the dark of the alleyway, “I’ll be right down there.”

Clasping your shoulder with his bear paw of a hand he implored, “please be careful.”

“Always am Mr. Morgan,” you winked with a confident smile though your heart was racing.

You watched as he concealed the lower half of his face with a black bandana, leaving only his eyes to be seen under the wide brim of his hat.

Only in the faint light of the streetlamp did you realize that Arthur’s eyes were the same shade as the jewel around your neck. Your heart was pounding for more reasons than one.

The night wore on with the usual bothering from drunk and foolish men — mostly harmless, buying you drinks (that you only pretended to sip) and asking why you were alone.

You fiddled with your necklace and purse, making sure to draw any attention from types you wouldn’t want noticing.

And it did. A dirty and angry looking man in the corner caught your eye. He wasn’t drunk and he had been watching you closely for most of the night.

As the music and clamoring picked up in pace and volume you headed toward the swinging doors in the back; sure enough he followed in your peripheral.

Each second as you made your way into the alley became more and more urgent, heart pounding and sweat dripping while you kept your hand close to your purse — should you need to use the knife Arthur gifted you.

The man closed in quickly, not touching you yet but attempting to intimidate with his presence. “Better stop right there girl…”

Turning around slowly you looked at your mark. He was big — but not as big as Arthur.

“Ain’t anyone teach you not to be alone in places like this?” He sneered with an air of superiority.

You watched Arthur’s bulky frame come into view from behind the shadows, “who says I’m alone?”

The gun in Arthur’s hand pressed to the man’s temple, “ain’t anyone ever teach you to be a gentleman?”

Arthur chuckled darkly, “now…I’m gonna hand that gun in yer holster to the fine lady,” he pressed the revolver harder into the man’s head, making him flinch. “— an’ if ya try anything I’ll blow yer goddamn head off.”

Arthur’s voice was deep and dark and almost made you feel bad for the man, but mostly it stirred something within you.

After the gun was given to you, Arthur began rummaging through the pockets to find money and trinkets.

You knew what the two of you were doing wasn’t right either and Arthur was a bad man, but he was good to you and there was goodness inside of him.

And at that moment? Electricity surged through every inch of your body with exhilaration and you had trouble finding sympathy for a man who would corner a woman by herself.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” The reality of the situation hit hard as a police officer stopped at the end of the alleyway — clearly seeing that it was Arthur robbing the man.

“Oh thank God you’re here officer!” You threw a shaking hand up to play the victim, “please help us!”

You felt terrible for the brief panic in Arthur’s darting eyes as he seemed unsure if you were betraying him.

It didn’t last though. Using your other hand you quickly pointed the gun you kept hidden from view and fired above the officers head.

Arthur understanding that it was a way to buy time, hit the man with the butt of his gun in an attempt to knock him out.

Swiftly grabbing your wrist he pulled you through the saloon, the drunk and confused patrons slowing down the cop in pursuit.

“The hell was that?!” Arthur demanded under his breath.

“Me trying to save our skins — you’re welcome!”

“I’ll thank ya if we make it outta here alive,” Arthur taunted as he found the closest horse to steal. He pulled you with no effort at all, your feet leaving the ground in the blink of an eye.

You wrapped an arm around Arthur’s tight core and pointed the gun behind you with the other, the galloping horse keeping you from a steady aim.

“Arthur where are we going?!”

“Jus’ hold on I’ll figure it out!”

Approaching a bridge you noticed that the view was partly obscured by willow trees, making it a good time as any to throw off the lawman.

Aiming to the best of your ability you shot behind you again, hoping to stall and not harm him. At that moment Arthur took a hard right into the grass and through the trees.

A proper lady’s place was not on the back of a horse with a wanted man, nor was it in a seedy alleyway with bad intentions. But there was nowhere else you wanted to be.

Nestling the gun in the saddlebag, you clung tightly to Arthur’s midsection and buried your face between his shoulder blades.

He was warm and strong and the wind in your hair cooler now, every sense heightened from the rush surging through you.

Slowing to a trot Arthur pulled to a grassy clearing and stopped. “Think we made it…”

He dismounted and grabbed you by the waist to help you do the same, bodies flush as your feet hit the ground.

“Wasn’t exactly a perfect heist but…you handled yerself well sweetheart.”

Arthur’s arms still hovered around you loosely as he spoke beneath his bandanna. His eyes searched yours as you brought your fingertips to his face.

Slowly, you removed what kept his lips from you and ran your thumb along his stubbled cheek. You admired the chestnut locks that fell carelessly along his brow and the way his broad chest heaved at your touch. All you wanted to do was kiss him and never stop kissing him.

“I feel like I could do anything right now Arthur…”

A smirk formed at the corner of his lips with an expectant raise of his eyebrows. Standing on your tiptoes your brought his face to yours for a slow, delicate kiss.

Though he looked dumbstruck and returned the gesture, he pulled back for a moment. “I want this but…I’m no good for ya girl. I’m only good at fightin’ and robbin’…you know that.”

“Bullshit Arthur.” The look on his face was priceless, seemingly more shocked to hear you swear despite just seeing you shoot at the law.

“Bullshit. You have goodness in you too and I’m a grown woman who knows what she wants.” Arthur watched you in disbelief.

“You’re good at protecting me and the way you touch me is kind and it makes me feel safe. I want you to keep touching me like that Arthur…”

A flicker of pride flashed on his face. The only time you could tell Arthur felt good about himself was when he helped others and he especially took a shine to helping you. Being a protector let him realize he was capable of being good at more than just robbing and fighting.

“Fair enough,” he said bringing you back in his embrace. “But I need to hear ya say it.”

“I want this Arthur, you have no idea,” your words were breathy and impatient.

His grip on you was tender but somehow still powerful despite not using any of his real strength. You felt positively tiny in his arms.

His mouth opened more for you, allowing curious flicks of your tongue on his; light whimpers combining. Hands began moving more hungrily — yours down his chest and his up your thigh.

Months prior you might have felt shame at the ache between your legs and the desire urging your hips forward; but now all you cared about was Arthur dousing that fire.

“Sweetheart it shouldn’t be like this…”

Your heart dropped, unsure of where he was going with that statement. “Wh— what do you mean?”

“Well I—look…” Arthur stuttered, trying to find the right words with a reddening face. “You deserve better’n layin’ in some grass in the woods like this.”

He paused to think and fiddle with his suspenders before continuing, “least lemme take ya back to the manor. Wanna make it, y’know…proper.”

You considered telling Arthur that you wanted it here, still riding the high of the night; being outside after barely escaping would only add to the thrill.

But Arthur didn’t want that. He wanted to treat you special and give you comfort and patience. He didn’t need to be the rugged outlaw anymore that night, he just needed to be your suitor.

You already got to play cops and robbers, maybe it was his turn to play the gentleman.

Sighing with relief you took Arthur’s hand, “well just so you know, here would be just fine with me.” Planting a reassuring kiss on his cheek you headed toward the horse, “but you can take me home.”

Arthur took a longer, more secluded route through the woods in case someone was still looking for you.

It wasn’t easy being patient, the tension palpable and the anticipation exquisite.

As you lurched forward with the horses gait you replayed the kiss and wandering hands in your mind.

You couldn’t wait to unbutton his shirt, to feel the curve of his muscle, to make him whine with the touch of your fingertips, and God you couldn’t wait to feel his on you.

You wanted him to squeeze you and mark you in every intimate place that was usually kept hidden. To thrust and curl and fill all of you.

Positioning yourself higher on the saddle you let your hands roam along his waistline and kissed the curve where his neck met his shoulder.

Arthur leaned his head, allowing you to kiss and nip at more of his sensitive skin. He responded with his rough hand grasping your calf. Ever so slowly it pushed up your dress and glided along your thigh.

Your hips instinctively rolled forward to the small of his back, Arthur kneading the fat of your thigh as your wetness grew.

It really wasn’t easy being patient.

You keened, “how much longer baby?”

“Jesus,” Arthur sighed while rolling his own hips at the air. “Gonna be there soon.”

“Tell me what you’re gonna do to me Arthur…”

“’M’gonna take off that dress you look so goddamn gorgeous in and feel how soft y’are.”

“Gonna feel how soft I am everywhere?” You teased with a light bite to his ear.

Arthur grunted a yes, “gonna part them pretty legs and make ya feel good darlin’. You gonna be good’n wet for me?”

“Oh you could sink into me right this second Arthur.”

“My God girl,” Arthur said taken aback. “Never thought I’d hear ya talkin’ like that…”

“I’m full of surprises.” You snaked your hand down to his lap, lightly ghosting over his straining manhood. “And I see you’re ready for me.”

Arthur shuddered with a groan, “painfully so.”

Laughing together you continued teasing touches and lustful whispers until the manor came into view.

Arthur sent the horse off and though it was late, the two of you snuck in should any of the gang still be up.

As the doors of the bedroom closed behind you, Arthur lifted you up and wrapped your legs around his waist. Gently pressing you to a wall your kisses were passionate and rutting slow.

Carrying you over to the bed, Arthur sat you at the edge and positioned himself behind.

Though they trembled slightly with nerves, he moved with unhurried and adept hands; carefully untying and undoing each bit of your dress and corset.

Despite the prior buildup and desperation, Arthur worked with incredible consideration and care — making sure not to harm your dress and kissing and caressing all newly exposed skin.

As the last of the confines on your upper body fell down your shoulders, Arthur massaged a breast in each hand from behind, kissing your neck and whispering praises in your ears.

Moving to the floor he knelt in front of you, slowly rolling your stockings off each leg and kissing down your inner thighs as he did.

Bare before him you felt vulnerable and exposed in a way you never had been. But Arthur wasn’t like anyone else you’d been with.

Standing up he took you in with an awestruck smile, “how the hell did I get so lucky?”

Moving to unbutton his shirt you mused, “I could ask you the same question.”

Giving him the same affection and attention, your lips and hands explored with purpose — making sure he understood you loved his scars and the hair that dusted his chest and trailed down his abdomen.

You watched as he stepped out of his pants, eager to take his throbbing length in your hand. But before you could, Arthur gently layed you down, moving the pillow under your head as he did.

Running his hand through your hair he gazed sweetly, “feelin’ okay beautiful?”

You nodded eagerly, pulling him down. Settling beside you his hand dipped down to your heat, sliding along your wet folds before pushing a finger in.

A drawn out whine escaped from your lungs, finally getting the touch you needed.

Arthur let out an amused chuckle before bringing his mouth to your breast, twirling his tongue along the stiff peak and sucking it in his mouth. All while working your inner walls.

“Arthur,” you mewled, suddenly overwhelmed at all of the wonderful sensation.

“S’okay sweet girl,” sitting up slightly Arthur used his free hand to move one of yours to your mound. “Show me how ya touch yerself.”

You rubbed circles on your swollen nub, slick with the arousal from Arthur’s pleasuring. Even just the featherlight touch was enough to push you closer as you clenched around his large digits.

Arthur observed you with lust blown eyes, “that’s right sweetheart, let’s getcha there.” His breath was hot against your neck as he cooed in your ear, “be a good girl for me…”

That was all it took for your gut to tighten as Arthur made his way back down to your breast, eagerly sucking between praises while you came around his fingers.

He didn’t remove himself from you until the last of the quivers left your legs and your panting settled. “That’s my girl…”

Gathering your senses and coming back to reality, you gently urged Arthur onto his back and moved to get on top. Straddling his much wider lap was almost a strain.

But the feeling of the underside of his cock as your wet folds glided over the twitching hardness, quickly made any strain forgotten.

Arthur’s hands grasped your hips as you sunk onto him, taking him into your core with needy moans.

He let out a shaky exhale and a whisper of your name while stilling your hips from moving, “jus’…stay like this for a second.”

Reaching up to run his thumb over your lip he smiled warmly, “this has to be the closest to heaven I’ll ever get.”

“Quite the smooth talker there Mr. Morgan.”

He laughed sweetly in response, “nah I ain’t smooth. Jus’ sayin’ what’s true.”

“Well either way,” you writhed slightly, “I think I can get you a little closer to heaven tonight…”

Placing your hands on Arthur’s sturdy chest you began bouncing on his cock, watching as he became a beautiful, whimpering mess beneath you.

There was a pride and thrill in making a tough, some would say brutish man like Arthur melt for you.

“C’mere princess,” Arthur pulled you down flush to him, your breasts pressed tightly to his upper chest as he wrapped his arms around you.

Kissing you with fervor he bucked up into your heat, his much bigger frame completely enveloping you.

“How’s this darlin’?”

“So—fuck, so good.”

“Love hearin’ you swear fer me…”

“Maybe,” you choked out between thrusts, “you should fuck me harder then.”

A primal groan expelled hot breath against your ear as Arthur picked up pace, his hand palming the swell of your ass as it shook with impact.

His substantial hand moved to cover the back of your head, lightly pulling your hair. “You take me so well sweetheart — God, so warm ’n tight.”

Every pump of Arthur’s cock hit a spot that had scarcely been stimulated before, slick dripping down your thighs as he did.

Arthur placed his fingers around your soaked opening, feeling as he pistoned in and out. “We’re makin’ a mess outta these expensive sheets.”

He tenderly placed his hand on your jaw to move your face towards his, “but you like that…dont’cha?”

His gravelly drawl was sex and sin.

Taking his thumb into your mouth you simply moaned a response as your pussy clenched around him.

“Yeah you do…good girl…”

Talking himself into a frenzy, taut muscle twitched and stiffened as he grew closer, legs kicking slightly with shallow breaths.

“Christ m’close,” Arthur choked out as his grip on you trembled.

Swiftly sitting up you hopped off and pumped his pulsing cock as he swore and gasped and gathered the sheets in his tight fists.

“That’s it handsome,” you stroked his flexing thigh while hot spend dripped down your knuckles and shot onto his tight stomach.

Arthur made a good call coming back to the manor; the comfort of the soft linens and silks certainly felt heavenly to your spent bodies.

The sight of him nude and blissful in your bed was something you’d carry with you as well, and you hoped he enjoyed the rare indulgence of comfort.

Propping himself on his elbow, Arthur eyed you with admiration. “Hell of a night.”

“Oh? That’s not just a regular night for you?” You joked with a light giggle.

“Robbin’ an idiot in an alleyway? Sometimes,” he shrugged playfully. “But this?” He leaned down to press his lips tightly to yours. “This ain’t.”

“Ya know darlin’, you ain’t gonna be able to show yer face around them lawmen again,” he realized with a laugh.

“To be honest, I think I’m growing weary of Saint Denis. Was actually hoping I might explore a little more of the world,” you paused to look at Arthur with a coy smile, “ya know?”

“Hmm, I might be able to help ya with that.”

Whether you really could leave and whether Arthur would trust your judgment in making that choice remained to be seen.

But he was happy in that moment and so were you. The two of you together was a paradox, and despite this — or maybe because of, it worked.

All that mattered was Arthur’s strong presence above you as he played with your necklace; the only thing left on your body.

#arthur morgan #rdr2 #nsft #fluff #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x f!reader #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 fanfiction #arthur morgan fanfiction #red dead redemption

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readingcoco · 1 month

Text

Painted Red 🖤

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader (f)

Words: 5487

Ao3 Link

Summary: Arthur revisits Rhodes Parlour House, hoping to get information about the Braithwaite gold from working girl Ettie. He leaves with more questions than answers and a gift he wasn't expecting.

Warnings: 18+ minors dni, smut, sex work, period typical attitudes, strangers to lovers, medium honour Arthur Morgan, angst, emotional smut.

Chapter Two - The Whore

[Chapter 1]

Arthur.

The air in Lemoyne is cloying. Sticky and thick like Molasses. He hates it here, hates waking up wet with sweat, bitten to an inch of his life by the mosquitos that swarm the lake behind his tent. He’s never been this far south and would gladly leave soon as convenient, except for Dutch’s insistence that gold lies somewhere between the warring Gray and Braithwaite families. He’s less convinced but far from him to try to question Dutch once his mind is set on something.

A high-pitched buzz by his left ear is met with the thwack of his open palm. Gotcha.

Something else is gnawing away at him, too, besides the mosquitos. A stirring in him, he thought, all but laid to rest after Mary, after— the kind that makes itself known only when he’s here, lying alone in his tent, staring up at the ceiling.

Want.

Fuck. He wants her so bad. Ettie, that working girl, up in Rhodes. With her daring eyes and smart mouth — her hands on him, days ago, in the parlour house. Bold as anything. God, if the very thought of her didn’t make a beeline straight down to his cock. He don't like it, don’t like it at all — what she does to him, how she makes him feel. Unarmed. Weak even. But also lighter.

He is appalled to admit he’s considered taking himself in hand more than once now to the thought of her breasts, her smile, the way she looked at him, full of doe-eyed devilment. He’s like some hapless kid. Should be ashamed.

He’s not been with a whore since his 20s. There was that one Dutch paid for when he turned 17, a string of them after Mary ended things the first time around. Abigail? Once. The last time he lay with a woman was when he and Mary briefly came back together before she married. What was that 94… 95? Would he even remember what to do? Would he be able to last? As a whore she ought not to care, especially if he’s paying for the privilege. But he wants to please her. Wants to fill her smart mouth with sounds of pleasure. Watch those daring, teasing eyes roll back in her head as she comes undone for him.

He’s stroking himself now. Her imagined sighs. His name on her lips—

Arthurrr—

“—ARTHUR!”

Dutch shouts him from outside his tent. Inescapable like the soupy Lemoyne air. Goddamnit, he hates it here.

“Best I can stoop to is twenty.”

Arthur nods, weighing the expensive-looking silver bracelet loosely in his palm before handing it over. Hosea was better at knowing the worth of fine things, but the fence was on his way back to camp, and it didn’t make sense to make two trips. Still, twenty dollars wasn’t bad for an afternoon playing errand boy to two star-crossed lovers. Not quite the gold Dutch was hoping for, but something at least.

“Deputy.” The man flashes him a knowing wink, touching the brim of his hat. He winces before stiffly nodding back—damn badge.

He won’t feel too bad about it; the Braithwaite girl, Penelope, had seemed more than content with just the letter, and neither family looked short on finary, as ill-gotten as it was. No, no harm done.

The sun is at its hottest, leaving him half-blind as it beams punishingly up from the road ahead. Sweat pours from his brow, and he can barely see where he’s going when he finds himself steering Branwen right up the hill towards Rhodes rather than carrying on straight in the direction of camp.

Only the stench of the butcher’s meat left out too long in the midday heat is enough to break him from his trance and acknowledge where he is. As though Branwen had been steering herself, with him merely passenger.

Too late to turn around now, he concedes. Might as well carry on heading where he’s heading.

He takes a long glug from his waterskin before dismounting. Hitching Branwen to the shadiest post of the parlour and making sure she has her fill from the water trough provided—a few extra sugar cubes for good measure.

“Won’t be long, girl.”

The heat was just as hard on the horses.

He assures himself he’s here for reconnaissance— nothing more. If anyone’s likely to have information on the Grays and Braithwaites, it’s her. Probably had enough of them to pick something up the gang could find useful, what with her knack for seeing the stuff folk didn’t want seen.

The twenty dollars burns a hole in his pocket.

Ettie had seemed willing the last time, hadn’t she? Not put off or disgusted by him that he could make out. Maybe the badge had its uses, after all.

Hell, maybe if he slept with her, got it out of his system, he could get on with the job at hand and stop all this silly early morning pining.

The parlour house is sleepy as he enters, too late for the lunchtime trade, too early for the field workers to have downed tools and made their way into town. His eyes skirt sheepishly across the bar.

He’d found himself coming here quite a bit since the gang moved south, not just to avoid Pearson’s cooking but because it was one of the few places that offered solace from the outside sun, the thick leafy green curtains keeping out the worst of the rays. I was nicer than most places he tended to frequent, the white-clothed tables suggesting a level of expected cleanliness from its clientele. And though he’d made sure to kick the mud from his boots before entering, he now chose to stand on the hardwood rather than risk marking the floral rugs that lined the rest of the room.

He can’t see her. Not even sure she's started working yet. And though a couple of girls at the bar make him double-take, none of them are Ettie.

He’s just about ready to skulk out, feeling old and feckless, when he hears her. Laughter carrying brightly from behind him, awakening the entire place from its slumber. He’d forgotten how alive she was. The rough sketch he’d drawn of her the night he’d got back to camp had barely captured her likeness, let alone her charm.

She is sat in one of the wooden booths, perched on the lap of a stout-looking man, happy and light, head thrown back, though he’s certain the man at her seat did little to merit such pleasant sounds.

He stalls for a moment, watching her work and is reminded of Hosea’s ability to tell a person exactly what they want to hear in order to rob them blind — except he isn’t sure who would be robbing who in the current circumstance.

The stout man’s hand paws lecherously at Ettie’s waist, bouncing her on his knee as he ogles up at her. Surely, no amount could be worth the touch of a man like that. Is that how he had looked, too? Leering and pathetic? Sucked in by talk of sketching and paints. She had read him like a book, and he’d allowed it — a fool to think her interest was in anything other than the dollars in his pocket.

Well, if money is all it will take to get her pretty face out of his waking thoughts, so be it.

“Miss White?”

Ettie shifts to face him mid-conversation and grins impishly as though expecting his arrival.

“Hello, stranger.”

But as he opens his mouth to respond, the words of solicitation stick in his throat, and he realises how unpracticed he is at this whole buisness. The man beneath her glares back, warning him off what’s his. Arthur swallows dryly, raising an arm to rest awkwardly on the booth’s divider, the other hooking into the buckle of his belt.

“I believe— Last time I was here you—”

Ettie raises an eyebrow, choosing to watch him flounder rather than step to his salvation.

So she’s toying with him. He sees how it is. Hadn’t acted quick enough the first time around and had her plucked from his side by the drunkard Leigh Gray. Now if he wants her, she’s expecting him to do the same to the dolt under her. He grits his jaw. The glint of his badge catches his eye, and he tries a different tack.

“I’ve heard word there’ve been dangerous men spotted in the area.”

Ettie scans the empty bar and looks back at him plainly.

“Everything seems fine from where I’m sittin’, Deputy.” She puts a playful hand on the stout man’s knee. “Wouldn’t you say so Ernest?” The man nods, wrapping his arm ever tighter around Ettie’s waist.

“Would you just—I’d like it if—” He can feel his cheeks starting to burn as he avoids meeting her eye and instead looks over his shoulder towards the central staircase. He speaks low, “Last time I was in, you asked to show me your work— but we was interrupted.”

A twinkle of recognition from Ettie. “Oh? You still interested?”

“Yes.” He sniffs. It’s out there now. Can’t take it back.

She silently weighs up some mental calculation before placing a palm on Ernest’s chest. “I’m sorry, Darlin’. Would you mind terribly if you bought me a drink some other time? The Deputy and I have a prior arrangement.”

He almost sympathises as he watches the man’s face shift from confusion to disappointment, but before it has a chance to twist into anger, Ettie kisses Ernest squarely on the mouth. “Wait right here. I’ve got someone who’ll know how to make it up to you.” She leaves with a wink and no room for protest, springing up and scurrying across to the bar.

Arthur regards Ernest with an awkward salute, unsure what to say given the circumstances. At least when he robbed men at gunpoint, there was no pretence of polite conversation.

It’s Ernest who is first to break their silence, “She’s a wily one, Deputy. Not as perky as some of the younger girls, but makes up for it with experience.” He slaps Arthur’s arm in a fashion far too familiar. It makes his skin crawl. “Clean, too.”

“They’ll be cleanin' you off this floor if you speak about the Lady like that again. We understood?” He’d done his best not to raise his voice, Dutch’s instructions of keeping a low profile never far from his mind, but the man is still white as a sheet as Ettie arrives back at the booth. With her is a lofty-looking girl with ashy blonde hair, who regards Arthur with an amused up and down as she passes. She doesn’t bother to say hello, instead making a beeline straight to Ernest’s side.

“A birdy told me you were in need of company since yours is being so rudely snatched away,” she says pointedly.

Although Ettie rolls her eyes, it’s obvious she’s in on the bit.

“Ernest, Ida’s going to take good care of you while I take the Deputy upstairs. Don’t have too much fun without me now.”

The walk up to Ettie’s room is long enough for the dread to start to kick in. He can feel his heart pumping in his throat and remembers why he stopped all this nonsense years ago, but then the warmth of her touch meets the small of his back, and she smiles at him gently from under her lashes.

“I’ve been wantin' to get you away from prying eyes,” she says quietly, for his ears alone. “Here’s my room, first on the left.”

As the door closes behind them, he can finally allow his shoulders to relax as he is greeted by the smell of lavender and something sweet he can’t quite place—chamomile, maybe? Her room is small, with sunny yellow walls and surfaces laden with bric-à-brac, the type which collects only once a space has been lived in for some time. Things that would be prone to getting lost or damaged travelling from pillar to post as he did, things he wanted to pick over and admire.

A painting hung to his right catches his eye: a handsome-looking dark bay drinking from what looks like Flat Iron Lake. He moves towards it to inspect it up close.

“You wanna leave your gun by the door, Deputy?” Ettie says softly.

He looks down. Of course. And undoes his gun belt, wrapping it around itself before setting it on the side, along with his hat. He stands before her, disarmed, not quite sure what to make of the curious way she watches him or where to rest his twitching fingers without the cool metal of his buckle to anchor to. He folds his arms.

“That’s Burdock, my baby. I take him out ridin’ whenever I can.” Ettie says, gesturing to the painting that caught his attention.

“You painted this?”

She grins, sticking up her nose with pride. “I did!” Her lack of reticence surprising.

“S’good.”

He’d never been much of a smooth talker when it came to women. Even when first courting Mary it had taken months to build up to asking her for a kiss. But this wasn’t courting, and he’d do best to remember that.

“As flattered as I am, I know you didn’t come up here just to look at my art.”

“Can a man not appreciate a paintin’?”

“They can,” she says, slinking up to him and running a trail of fire across his chest. Pressing herself flush against him. Her hair smells like rose water — not mud, or sweat, or blood. And it disturbs him to think that the last time he felt the heat from another’s body so close, his hands were wrapped around their neck. The tip of her nose aligns with his collarbone, and he could rest his chin on her crown if he felt bold. “But it would be an awful expensive trip just to look at a picture.”

She steps back slowly to look at him, her absence leaving him cold. For a moment he fears she’s sensed the danger he’s sure he radiates — realising a beat too late, the expected next step of their dance.

“How much do I owe you?” he says, flusteredly reaching into his satchel.

“Five dollars. Anything ‘French’ is an additional two — Though considering I’m due payment from our little sweepstakes, I’d be happy to waive the fee for that on this occasion.”

He’d almost forgotten about the bet placed on his head and wondered how often the women discussed what went on behind closed doors, how he would fair in comparison. He cringes at the thought and tries to push it to the back of his mind.

“I ain’t expectin’ special treatment, don’t worry.”

He hands over five dollars, and with the money on the dresser, Ettie retakes her position. The plainness of the transaction and the affection it now entitled him to feeling implausible.

“Relax a little,” her voice comes out like a breath, encouraging him to breathe deeply in time with her. “It’s okay. We’re gonna have fun.” She guides him over to the bed before stepping back to remove her shirtwaist and skirt, each button revealing new skin he now had permission to touch.

As he stands there watching, something about the ungraceful practicality of her undressing fascinates him, how in contrast it felt to the choreographed movements of the rest of her performance. He wonders if this is her more natural state, all furrowed brows and uncoordinated limbs, and if so, what it took for her to keep up appearances.

When down to her corset and underthings, Ettie faces the mirror to unpin the hair fixed neatly atop her head. He is silent as it falls like water, spilling over the ridge of her shoulders and pooling loosely at the base of her spine.

“Your turn now.” She says, and he hardly has time to react before her nimble fingers are working open the buttons of his shirt.

From this angle, he can see how the sun has caught the high points of her face, leaving behind a sprinkle of freckles lightly masked by powder. The slope of her neck is decorated by loose curls and a small silver locket that bobs up and down above her— He dares not gaze lower. Only as she begins to work at his fly does his sluggish brain arrive at the moment in hand.

“You ain’t taking this off?” His voice comes out hoarser than he expects, and for the first time, Ettie looks a little startled, stepping back to look at him hesitantly. He hadn’t meant to scare her.

“I wasn’t planning on. My draws are split, and this unties. Look—” She pulls the ribbon at her shoulder. And he hates that it’s Ernest’s words that colour his view as the loosened cotton strap of her chemise falls away to expose a pretty breast, pushed up by the boning of her corset. Was the man blind? “It’s a little cumbersome to get on and off.” He aches to see her fully, to touch the skin still hidden from view, but he won’t push.

Her hand dips back into his open fly, sliding between a gap in his union suit. He lets out a wince to feel the pads of her fingers making contact with the base of his dick. “That feel good?” she goads. His whole body gone rigid. Barely able to summon words. Nodding sharply in response, as she begins to ease him out.

The pace in which she palms him feels foreign compared to his hand's efficient strokes, but she is responsive to each breath, learning him with every shudder and tense of his jaw. His eyes flutter closed, and for a moment, he allows himself to get lost in the sensation of her experienced hands. Rare he is permitted such selfish pleasure. Rare anyone did anything for him without expectation of its return tenfold. And yet— The lopsidedness of the arrangement suddenly feels too much to bear. He needs to touch her, needs to make her feel as good as she’s making him.

As her speed quickens, he moves a cautious hand to her breast, cradling her delicately before lightly skimming his thumb across her nipple. Testing. Her rhythm falters slightly, and he is rewarded with a small whimper that escapes half-bitten through her lips. That’s it. He circles the pebbled skin, harder this time, and delights to feel her swell under his touch. Confidence growing, he dips his head lower to taste her. She moans again, but this time unrestrained, head lolling back as he sucks.

“Arthurrr—”

Her strokes hasten, and he needs to hear her keen for him again. Needs to touch her. He reaches down between them, between her legs, trying to find the source of her heat amongst rumpled cotton, but then she is pulling away. Stepping back. Straightening up.

“Hey, this is about you. Don’t worry about me, okay.” She says.

“But—”

“Shhhh, trust me,” Ettie whispers calmly and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. He worries that he has done something wrong, hurt her in some way he didn’t intend, too forceful, too coarse. But like she can read his mind—

“Stay put, I ain’t goin' nowhere.”

She’s good at that, he thinks, toeing the line between gentle and firm. Never going as far to bruise a man’s ego but not coming across as a pushover either. Had she always been that way, or had she learnt how to soothe a man, just as he’d learnt how to intimidate them? Through necessity. What was her natural temperament? What was his?

Ettie walks over to the dresser and grabs a small glass jar, scooping out a little of the contents before returning to the bed.

“You wanna get a little more comfortable?” She says, eyeing his half-open union suit and the jeans around his ankles with amusement. What a sight he must look. But if she was going to remain in her underthings, shouldn’t he? It didn’t seem proper to be exposed when she was not. He kicks off his jeans but leaves his Union suit open, but on.

“What’s that?” He nods to the creamy concoction cupped in her hand.

“Just a little somethin’ for my comfort.” That playful look again. “You are quite… sizable. I wanna make sure I’m ready for you.”

His cheeks darken, her lack of arousal confirming his worst fears.

“Maybe if you let me touch you, you might enjoy it more.”

Her sigh is affectionate. “Who said I wasn’t enjoying myself? Anyone ever told you you worry too much?”

They face each other at the precipice of the bed. His toes curling whilst she slicks up his length with the salve in what feels like one continuous gliding motion, till he is rock hard and panting before her. She shifts herself to bend over the bed, guiding him behind her with a hand on his hip. She arches her back to rest with her forearms on the mattress.

“You ready to show me what you can do, Deputy?”

“Arthur. Please.” He manages to huff out, unable to look away from the way she is presented so brazenly for him.

Ettie gives him a wry grin over her shoulder. “Arthur, I want you to show me what you’ve been dreamin’ on since we first met.” And he wants to show her, too.

Swallowing thickly, he carves a hand between the slit of her draws, spreading them open to finally expose the supple flesh of her backside. The sight alone has his dick twitching in anticipation, helpless to prevent the full handful of her ass he takes in his grasp.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” He croaks.

“Might have heard it mentioned.”

He runs a shaky hand through his hair, steadying his breath, before aligning himself with her entrance. He is mindful not to push into her too quickly, and though the salve helps some, he hears her breath hitch in her chest as she takes him, inch by inch.

“Too much?” He asks, trying to mask his trepidation, but he is answered by an enthusiastic grind of her hips, which sheaths him fully inside. He stops breathing for a moment, caught by the clutch of her cunt. Senses all but lost to the sensation of her heat. His lids grow heavy, but the sight of his cock buried to the hilt has him straining to keep them open. Hypnotised by the way she encases him.

He gently rocks himself backwards and then forward, shallow at first and then deeper, slowly increasing his pace with each slap of their hips.

“Ettie-”

“That feel good, Arthur?” So good. So good. And he wishes he could look into those teasing eyes as she spears herself back onto him. At first, matching his tempo and then provoking him to speed up, take her faster, harder.

He won’t last much longer at this rate. And tries to bat away the sinking feeling that that might be something she wants. For this to be over quickly. She’s making all the right noises, but then again, he walked into this room with a badge on his chest, so honesty was hardly something he felt entitled to.

He wants her closer, craving the reassurance only her face could bring. He arches down over her, carefully hooking an arm around her chest, drawing her up into him, until she kneels upright on the bed with him holding her weight from behind, bodies remaining locked.

“This ok?” He huffs.

“Mhmmm” She nods back hazily.

From this position, he can see her better, the rise and fall of her chest, the growing flush that has spread from her cheeks down her neck, the way her eyes shutter when he reaches for her breast, his other seeking out her heat from below. She hums a little then, a sound so pure it answers all suspicions about the authenticity of those proceeding it. God how he wants to watch her come around him, if only he can last long enough to get her there.

His fingers slip between her folds, spreading her open as he continues to fuck up into her, the slick of her cunt undeniably her own making now. Ettie’s back arches wildly as he begins to rub a tight ring around her clit, and she lets out a noise halfway between a shriek and a moan like she is surprised by the pleasure. But when he tries to continue, she is grasping his wrist, pulling it away from her core and bringing it up to her mouth to suck hard on his fingers. The debauched way she looks at him then almost sends him over the edge.

“Come for me, Arthur.”

God, his name sounds like honey on her lips.

“Just like that—”

Surely she’s not inferring what he thinks she is? But he is near losing himself in the thought alone.

“So close—” She coos, “Just let go, fill me—”

Fuck. Fuck—

He drags his erupting cock out of her just in time as he spills violently onto her ass and then the floor, staggering backwards, trying to catch his breath.

“Jesus! Jesus. I nearly— I’m sorry.” He babbles, feeling boorish and out of control.

“Hey there. I know. I said you could.” She says, turning around to run her fingers through his ruffled hair. He looks back at her, confused, still out of breath.

“Ain’t you worried about—” he stops, trying to find the correct phrasing but becoming aware of the fond, almost patronising look on Ettie’s face.

“I ain’t worried, no.” She smiles gently, “Wouldn’t be much good at my job if I didn’t take precautions.”

He nods sheepishly, though still not entirely at ease, before sitting back down at the edge of the bed, sighing deeply, struggling to enjoy the last twitches of his high.

When his breath returns to normal, he grabs his jeans from the foot of the bed, trying not to cringe at the mess he’s made of her and her floor.

“Don’t feel like you have to rush on account of me,” Ettie says, making her way to a small porcelain jug and basin in the corner of the room. She dampens a washcloth and wipes away all trace of his spend still marking her skin.

“Want me to clean you up?” She approaches him cautiously.

“I’m alright.” He says.

She raises a silent eyebrow.

“I mean, I can manage for myself.”

She nods and hands him over the rag. He’s not sure how to feel as he tidies himself up, but he's aware of her eyes on him, watching, trying to figure him out. Knowing he’s been read before she even opens her mouth.

“When did you last lay with a woman, Deputy?”

He pauses. That bluntness that throws his head through a loop. Dangerous. And he doesn’t know how to answer—what she’s wanting to hear— that it was likely five years since he’d been touched like that? That he’d touched someone else? Was she looking for an explanation for his rustiness or an apology?

“Was it obvious?” he asks, unable to fully meet her gaze.

“Well, you ain’t got a ring and—” She hesitates momentarily. “I shouldn’t say it,” The apples of her cheeks start to ripen uncontrollably until she breaks into laughter. “You fuck like you’ve somethin’ to prove.”

He might be inclined to take such a comment to heart if it wasn’t for the pleasure he took in seeing her so genuinely amused, and before he knows it, he’s chuckling too.

“I just didn’t want it to be awful for you.”

Ettie nudges him with her heel. “You paid me to make you feel good. So as long as you had fun, I did too.”

She lights a cigarette and offers him one from her case: silver, engraved with the initials A.B. in an ornate filigree. He accepts and allows her to light the smoke from the tip of her own. He still doesn’t quite know how to make conversation but is relieved to have something to occupy his hands.

“Still wanna see my paints?” She asks after a few moments quiet.

“That’s why I’m up here, ain’t it?” He says wryly. She scoffs before darting across the room, opening draws, rooting through cupboards, pulling things out left and right—a tornado, leaving a trail of smoke in her wake.

When she returns, her arms are laden with supplies, and she settles down next to him cross-legged on the bed, spreading out her wares between them. She opens a battered-looking sketchbook and smooths out the page.

“See,” she says, stroking the paper and encouraging him to do the same. “Just like the paper in your journal—Oh, wait a second.”

She stands abruptly before dashing off again, this time to the water jug. Her back turned, Arthur flicks through the pages and is rapt by a flurry of faces looking back at him. A few he recognises as girls from the parlour, but there are others too: an elderly woman in a bright feathered hat, a rakish-looking man in spectacles, a little girl with pigtails holding a ragdoll, each of them living and breathing on the page like she had rendered their very souls.

“You snoopin’?” Ettie tuts in mock disapproval, though she doesn’t seem bothered by the intrusion. “And after all the grief you gave me for looking at your art.”

Art.

Arthur had never thought about his sketches in that way before. Sure, he sometimes felt pride if he managed to capture something or someone’s likeness in a way that felt true, but he’d never had any training to consider what he did art. Not like the pretty pictures spread out in front of him now. These felt so full of life he swore he wouldn’t be surprised to see one of them moving.

“These are good,” he says as she settles beside him, her thigh resting lightly against his.

She rolls her eyes, then nudges his arm. “Get your journal out— Don’t worry, I don’t wanna look at any of the drawings— Well, I do, but I’m not going to force you. Just want to show you something.”

He relents and gets his journal from his satchel, handing it over suspiciously, realising only after it’s in her hands how reckless he’s being, and for what? He hadn’t asked her about the blood feud between Grays and Braithwaits, nothing about the gold. The only information gleaned was that his dick still worked, and even that had only served him.

Keeping to her word, Ettie opens the book to an untouched page and submerges her paintbrush into the jug, tapping off the excess water and swirling the tip into a square of dried paint. Her hand hovers over the blank page before gliding the brush across the paper in a flourish of crimson, blooming as it settled, like petals opening at dawn.

“Here, you try.”

She dips the brush back into the jug to clean it off before holding it out towards Arthur. Following her direction, he scrubs the brush into a dark green pan and brings his hand to the paper. His line comes out fainter than hers and less fluid, the brush strokes looking scratchy as he reaches the edge of the page.

“Not enough paint. Got to get it saturated.” She smiles. “But look,” she flicks over the page, “it hasn’t gone through.” She starts to explain about wetting the paper before applying the paint, working in layers, letting stuff dry, getting more and more animated, that he starts to laugh.

“You have to start adding colour to your work. I could—” She stops. “You planin’ on seein’ me again?” The question is abrupt, as though she realises she is getting ahead of herself and needs to square off the basics first.

He hadn’t considered that this would be more than a one-time occurrence but he’d be lying if he didn’t acknowledge the sense of relief that had spread throughout his body and mind in the past half hour. More settled than he’d been in months, maybe even years. Perhaps next time he could get some information out of her. Perhaps next time he could prove himself a less selfish lover.

“I’d like to if you’ll have me.”

“Marvellous! Here—” She thrusts a small wooden box into his hands.

“What’s—?”

***

“A watercolour set for travelling. Not amazing quality but perfect for a beginner or someone on the move.” She gives him a wry smile “You can borrow it and show me how you get on next time you see me.”

She’s a whirlwind, and even as he’s riding Branwen back into camp he still feels bowled over. Not sure how he’s agreed to as much as he has, or if he’s being played, or if he cares to stop it.

Tag list: @redwritr, @twola, @ultraporcelainpig, @cassietrn & @milesology

If you would like to be added/removed from the tag list, just let me know! x

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x fem!reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x oc #rdr fanfiction #rdr2 fanfic #painted red

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the0retically · 3 months

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The Suckening #7 The Pulse of the City:

Just my thoughts, spoilers below :)

- Cumpire lore let’s go?????

- GOD THE INTRO EVERY TIME JUST SLAPS I LOVE IT

- “If you don’t call me the suckener, I’ll…KILL YOU!” Charlie pleaseeee

- Oh god the pheasant and the old people, I forgot about them

- “I think he feels guilty for not feeling guilty” shilo you’re so interesting

- “Oh? Still covered in blood” “are you just trying to make things worse?”

- Shilo please be safe, this officer isn’t good get out of there!!!! Prince Edward as the savior???? WHAT???? NO NO NO NO

- HE COLLAPSES?? Feigns unconsciousness???? Shilo please you’re alone with a follower of Edward twilight

- God fuck Edward twilight

- OH! The officer contacted Deacon though! That’s good

- DEACON ARE YOU PART OF EDWARDS THING??? NOOOO

- Deacon semi papa of shilo!! Wooo!!!!

- Arthur!!!!!!! Dude you don’t even know where the twins are uh oh

- But hey Arthur is able to follow the tracks of the bus!!

- Spirits touch????? Arthur????

- Ooooh the audio coming in from the fight is so well done

- HAHAHA ARTHUR PLEASE!!!!! “He’s pretty stoic but he looks horrified by what was said”

- They really just keep bullying Grizz to use spirits touch on the pheasant pleaseee

- “Something is Wrong with this pheasant, it’s not you, but something is Wrong”

- Oh god he takes the pheasant with him

- “I’m coming for you baby boy. Sorry about the other baby boy, but you’re in a sewer and I’m scared of sewers.” GRIZZ OH MY GOD

- “It’s all in a bad state deputy, but just close your eyes.” Deacon please do not hurt Shilo, he trusts you

- Arthur and Grefgore night in!

- Oh no, Grefgore please be ok

- “Hi…..my boy” “hi my boy! :D” oh I love them

- Grefgore don’t leave!!!!!!! The sun is about to rise!!

- Arthur???? You’re leaving?

- And hi to deacon?? Arthur?? 👀👀

- I love Grefgore he’s so fun. He’s just the most himbo someone can be

- What are they doing with the demons and the fangs?? This is So Strange

- “What are you wearing? Demon clothes?” “I’m naked, I wake up naked” “Oh God” HAH OH NO EMIZEL

- “Do you want to kill him? Cause that’ll kill him. ‘Nice cock man’ and you kick his head off” oh my god??

- Oh god Charlie this is a horrible image, “a twisted fashion studio” oh god, Charlie please this is horrifying

- “Their very demeanor scratches my brain” Grizz I’m with you but also Vex is terrifying

- “Do you want to be the guy on the table Grizz?” Oh no, ok but pop off Grizz good voice acting

- “I will be your mommy :)” oh god

- Charlie, Charlie please this now a for sure a horror campaign

- My eyes are just wide, WHAT ARE THEY CONSTRUCTING HUH???????

- Charlie is too good at being a deranged villain

- “He has had no reason to look for you, yeah, yeah he’s in his work right now” my stomach just fell, why is that so scary

- Like goodness Props to Charlie the suckening has me way more scared than bitb ever did, like I love and adore bitb so much and there were moments where I was terrified but there’s something about this that is so haunting. I can just see it in my head so clearly and it’s so freaky

- They never expect Emizel to come back!!

- Oh god but please emizel don’t die again already

- Love how Grizz is just simping for Vex because me too

- “They’re two dogs in me and they’re fucking” WILLIAM WISP IS THAT YOU??

- God I love how Grizz and bizly and just speaking as the ghouls during this fight Charlie is just like “…what?? What are you even saying right now”

- Emizel please just get out of there they’re both already your enemy you don’t need one to hate you more because then they’re going to target Your twin so PLEASE JUST LEAVE

- They’re just singing the climb now oh my god iconic

- Emizel just lying to Viv about how he’s a real boy and doesn’t burn in the sun “but we saw you burn” “it was an illusion, I’m a magician”

- “Vex have you-“ “YES I KNOW!” I love them, they’re fun

- “And you turn around away from her” emizel oh my god

- “You cannot use your twin name and not mean it” honestly based

- I ALMOST SPAT MY WATER OUT OH MY GOD “your name is shameashmai”

- “I’m not letting you guys do this again” “no I’m having all the fun in the world right now”

- DOES EMIZEL LOSE HIS RIBS???? OH GOD

- VEX IS FLESH AND VIV IS BONES????? HAUNTING SO SO SCARY

- “Enjoy the ribs, I’m gonna head out” “what do you mean you’re gonna head out??”

- “Can I prepare an action to kill myself?” “He hasn’t taken his glasses off yet so we’re still ok!” “It’s just me as a dm thinking about splitting the dice pool for movement and killing yourself” I’ve never laughed this hard holy shit “as soon as I see this thing I want to run and kill myself”

- “Bizly give me the scariest animal you can think of” “….peacock, no” “FUCK OFF!”

- PLEASE HE JUST KILLED HIMSELF IN FRONT OF THEM OH MY GOD?? AND HES BEEN NAKED THIS WHOLE TIME

- “One of mine or one of yours” sooooo Viv and Vex have some stake in the fangs and the demons, but what does that mean??

- SHILO TIME! Please be ok

- Why is shilo healed and ok, this isn’t real it can’t be, Charlie is too smiley right now, he sounds way too happy

- Fucking Edward twilight oh my god why is he like this

- THEYRE BLOOD BONDED????? OH NO I cannot believe this

- Grizz is just loving this encounter

- Why is this so sexual I hate this, Edward twilight please stop why are you crawling up the sheets to shilo???? This is so—I cannot

- Deacon! You’re here!

- God why is Edward like this, Charlie really just locks in as him it’s insane

- Oh god shilo has to tell Edward about emizel oh no

- Shilo tripped no!!

- The wallpaper is Edward in the phone oh my god

- I do love shilo and deacon’s relationship though, he seems to genuinely care for shilo and I just love them

- Back with Viv and Vex! Oh god

- Ok thank god he’s just leaving

- “William wisp mode” emizel cosplaying as William is so funny like Grizz called it, that’s exactly what he looks like

- GREFGORE FOUND SHILO!!!!!!!! AWWWWWW LETS GOOOOOO

- HE FOUND EMIZEL TOO!!

- I love Grefgore so much

- Arthur just left them? Ok the boys gotta find him

- What is happening to emizel and shilo? Why do they have pain? WHAT?? It’s the Edward twilight smoulder??? Huh??? Charlie WHAT?

- SOMETHING TWISTED IN LA?? What did Edward do?

- A full day good god

- Arthur’s just on a plane omg

- ITS AFFECTING ARTHUR TOO???

- Absolute bat shit episode I loved it

#jrwi #jrwi thoughts #the suckening #the suckening spoilers #emizel tucker #shilo bathory #arthur bennett #jrwi grefgor #jrwi Edward twilight #bro I don’t even know how to tag him #Edward twilight #??#deacon Keller #vex Waylon #Viv Waylon #I think that’s how it’s spelt?#anyway take a shot everytime i wrote out ‘oh god’#jrwi Viv #jrwi vex

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sednonamoris · 7 months

Text

good, honest thieves

Pairing: John Marston x gn!reader

Summary: A fight with Micah leads to a lecture from Dutch. Loyalty is exactly what you've been raised on, but to what? To whom? The answer seems to be John every time.

Warnings: Knife violence, canon-typical violence, fish guts, strong language, Micah Bell's whole existence, sexist language/insults, Dutch being our fav little manipulator, blink-and-you'll-miss-it mild angst

Word count: 1,465

A/N: I've been waiting to write this altercation since I first started ghost story, so I hope you all enjoy it for this nice, short chapter 💕

Series masterlist • AO3

—

You miss out on a hell of a firefight. A lot of law dead. A lot of townsfolk dead. A run-in with Mr. Leviticus Cornwall himself.

You’re surprised that he deigned to show his face in the mud and the muck of Valentine, but if there’s one thing rich folk are good for it’s greed. From the sound of it, he’s none too pleased to have been robbed.

From the sound of it, it’s a lucky thing John and Arthur and Dutch and Strauss ain’t dead after all that.

The gang was quick to make a hasty retreat.

Now you’re camped outside a little town called Rhodes, farther south than you’ve settled in years. Arthur teases that you and Javier must be happy to be in warmer climes, but personally? You hate it. New Austin is dry heat and desert for miles. The air there bites, sharp and clean. Here it’s thick as molasses and wet with humidity. Sweat and condensation cling to everything. The very ground beneath you is mucky and muddy and lush with overgrowth, like the vegetation can’t stand it here, either. It claws and climbs its way out and onto everything. You’ve never seen undergrowth like this, swallowing trees and homesteads whole without discrimination.

Out of everyone, you figured Dutch would hate it most - you can’t count how many times he’s told stories about the Southern scum that put his daddy in the ground. But he seems in his element out here. The town is divided into factions he and Hosea have wasted no time playing against one another, and rumors of confederate gold have lit his eyes with that same gleam you saw before Blackwater. You know you won’t leave until he has it - he’s even got Bill and Arthur playing deputy while working leads.

Today they’re off with the sheriff chasing ‘shine in the hills, so camp is mostly quiet. Or it would be, if Micah wasn’t hanging around.

“Ghost,” he calls out, uncomfortably familiar. He approaches Pearson’s chuckwagon with open arms that are greeted only with a flat stare when you look up from the fish you’re gutting. You promised Pearson you’d take care of them while he does the shopping.

“Micah.” His name grits past the teeth you’re doing your utmost not to bare in warning; already he’s closer than you’d like.

“Haven’t seen much of you since I got back from Strawberry,” he says.

“I keep busy.”

“Not too busy for Marston.” He rocks back on his heels and raises his brows like he’s caught you out. Something about the way he says John’s name makes your hackles raise.

“Me an’ him are friends,” you chop off a trout head aggressively while making even more aggressive eye contact. “You and me, on the other hand, ain’t.”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” he wheedles. “I’m a real friendly fella. We oughta go drinking sometime and I’ll show you.”

It takes everything in you not to cringe at the thought. It’s one thing to work a job with him, when you have to, but spending quality time with Micah? It sounds like just about the worst thing you can think of. He has this slimy quality about him, and the way he talks about some of the others is enough to solidify your poor opinion.

Dutch can make nice with him all he likes. You won’t.

“We all heard what happened when you went drinking in Strawberry,” is what you say aloud. “Rhodes might not survive.”

He laughs through the fact that the joke was meant to be at his expense and leans closer. “You’re funny, Ghost. Real funny. I can see why John likes you so much. It’s too bad he’s so… Well, you know.”

“He’s so what?” If looks could kill, Micah would be stone dead.

“Useless,” he shrugs. “I mean, first he gets hisself half eaten, then he’s fleeced rustlin’ sheep— almost got his brains blown out in Valentine. Not to mention he let Morgan steal a two dollar whore right out from between his—”

All of the sudden you can’t hear past the ringing in your ears or see past the blood red of your vision. He’s snickering, leaning closer still, leering, and faster even than you can register you’ve grabbed him by the hair and smashed his face against the fish guts and the wooden table before you.

He cries out, somewhere between alarmed and disgusted and enraged.

Your filleting knife rests against his pulse point.

“Say it again,” you snarl.

Stark, killing hate reflects back on your knife blade with the whites of his eyes. “Goddamn you!”

“Not so funny now, huh?” He struggles in your grip. “Say it again.”

He opens his mouth and bares his teeth, likely to spit more profanities, when approaching footsteps stop you both in your tracks. You glare up at the intrusion to find Ms. Grimshaw. Her face is even more severe than usual.

“What exactly is going on in my camp?” she demands, hands on her hips.

“Micah was just apologizing,” you say. Your smile is a feral show of teeth.

He squirms in your grip, claws at your hands. “Get this goddamn lunatic off me!”

She purses her lips, unimpressed. “Ghost, unhand Mr. Bell.”

You let him go reluctantly, pressing the knife to his skin just a little harder before shoving him back. He staggers away and you wipe your hands down your pants and grimace.

Micah’s hands fly to his throat, like he’s checking it’s all still intact. His cheek shines slimy red with fish blood.

“You’re crazy!” he accuses.

“Ghost is plenty of things,” Ms. Grimshaw says before you can cut in, “but crazy ain’t one of ‘em. I suggest you learn from this particular mistake, Mr. Bell. Now go on, the both of you. Get! Before you make another mess for me to clean up.”

You murmur a chastised yes, ma’am under your breath.

Micah stalks away, glaring over his shoulder without another word.

All that’s left is the thunk, thunk, thunk, of your knife against the wooden table. You let yourself imagine each unfortunate fish is Micah, instead.

—

Dutch finds you later. You’re sat on a log overlooking the lake, glaring out across the water like it’s somehow responsible for everything that’s happened up until now. He sits beside you and lights a cigar.

“Ms. Grimshaw tells me someone tried to kill Micah today.”

His tone is neutral, but a quick glance out of the corner of your eye reveals a tightness in his posture that’s never a good sign. He lets out a puff of smoke and watches it fade into the horizon with squinted eyes.

“She tell you he had it coming?”

“Now, Ghost—” he starts to chastise, but you cut him off.

“I never pretended to see what you do in him.” His eyes widen and flash with wounded pride, but your face is set in defiance. “Maybe we’re all nasty killers and degenerates, but he’s worse. I ain’t gonna stand by while he runs his mouth about any one of us.”

His face is all severity and rough-cut gemstone. “Any one of us, or just John?”

Outrage flares your nostrils and twists your mouth into something ugly. “That ain’t fair! And it certainly ain’t the point.”

“Isn’t it?” His hand on your shoulder, so often a comfort through the years, rests heavy and threatening. Your pulse jumps. Your mouth feels dry. “We don’t have the luxury of doubt - not between any of us. Haven’t I taught you loyalty? Don’t I deserve your trust?”

That’s all it takes for you to deflate. “You have it. You’ve always done right by us, but—”

“There is no but,” he says. “Faith, Ghost! Faith.”

“Faith, then. Fine. Faith.”

The words taste bitter on your tongue, but his eyes soften all at once into that familiar, sparkling brown. “I knew I could depend on you.”

“Sure. Always.”

He leaves with one last squeeze of your shoulder and orders to look into the Braithwaite family - something to do with prize horses. After all, who better than the infamous Ghost Rider? The Van der Linde Ghost?

—

You stay on that log for a long time. Thinking. Smoking. Stewing in the not-quite-anger left in Dutch’s wake.

—

That night around the fire you and John gravitate to one another like always. He brings you a plate of fish and sits beside you; a little too close for friends, a little too friendly to be anything but.

Somehow it aches more than usual.

He chatters on about his day, but all you can hear is the sneer of Micah’s voice, and all you can feel is the burn of Dutch’s knowing stare. The sweat on your brow has little to do with Lemoyne’s oppressive heat anymore.

#john marston x reader #rdr x reader #rdr2 x reader #ghost story #fran writes #ch. 21

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