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convexicalcrow · 2 months

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Cairo, 1921

It's been a long season of exploration for Pix, leading expeditions into the oases west of Egypt in search of new discoveries. Much of what he'd found was rubble, or buried several feet under sand. But it had not all been for nothing! He was particularly interested in what some enscriptions call an invasion of the Sea Peoples towards the end of Dynastic Egypt which seems to have plunged the country into chaos. There's more records in Greek and Roman sources, but they're much more sedated in their descriptions, and mostly talk of Egypt falling into ruin. Concerning, but not that concerning for a civilisation that had lasted for thousands of years relatively unchanged.

The problem was, such an invasion was unlikely to leave much evidence behind, if some of the stories aare true about the scale of the slaughter. Which, of course, could have been for dramatic effect. To the victor goes the spoils. Certainly, in Bahariya Oasis, he'd uncovered some broken pots with various bits of papyrus in them, and evidence to suggest things had once burned. The temple that once stood there was barely standing anymore; it was just a few columns and stelae and statuary half-buried in the sand.

And now that the digging was over, he was now tasked with recording his finds and writing up a report for his benefactor, so he might continue exploring next season. Most of the papyri in the pots seemed to be letters to the dead, though there was no record of these sorts of papyri being buried in pots. Still, this could mean it was ground-breaking research and that was exciting! Well, as exciting as reading through such personal expressions of grief could be, Pix mused.

On their own, they were pretty standard. Children talking to their parents. Parents calling for their children. Others calling for other family members or friends, some who may or may not have been buried. They seemed to be the newest Egyptian artefacts found in terms of dates, as the hieratic they were written in was only from this late period around the time of this supposed invasion.

It was when Pix looked at them together that it kind of hit him how grief doesn't really change. These could have been written twenty years ago and no one would think them odd. And there were so many of them! Some were dated, some not, but he had uncovered over 115 of them in one necropolis, and another 97 more in a second necropolis further towards the outside of the main town in the oasis. That was a lot of grief, and might not have even been all of them. All of them written in the space of, perhaps, ten years or so, as if something calamatous did indeed befall the oasis. The letters are vague about what happened, but given the dates, Pix is sure it can only mean one thing. Some invading force reached this far-flung oasis and left a lot of people dead.

Pix finds himself returning to one letter in particular. It's written from a son to his father, with writing that's erratic and disjointed. Some of the ink has smudged, making parts of it unreadable. It's also remarkable that it contains no names. The son simply calls him, father, and himself, his beloved son. Which is rather unusual indeed. The remembrance of the name was considered vital to a good afterlife, so why would this letter remain so anonymous?

He picked it up to examine it. It was a small piece of papyrus, torn in places, and folded hastily and shoved into the pot, unlike the others that were rolled and tied with a piece of cloth. It suggested some reluctance, or haste, or perhaps he was disturbed in the process of writing to his father. Perhaps he'd never know. But some of the words just kept echoing around in his brain, as if somehow, these were people he once knew. Which seemed absurd of course! He was no ancient Egyptian! But something nagged at him. It was just-

"A letter from a son to his father. It begins, 'Praise to my father, who died for Ma'at, who rises with Ra into the sky from the belly of Nut! Praise to you, O Wesir, who gives life to the lifeless, shine on with my father, may he be justified! Please… keep him safe. I know not where you are. You would not recognise me today. My heart is. weary. How can I mourn when there is so much at stake? I have few friends in this world. Your beloved son misses you, and perhaps, one day, when my heart no longer rages, perhaps then I will find peace. Please just let me know you are okay. Let me know you made it to Wesir's court, that you are an akh in the skies, who lives forever. Every day I am met with uncertainty. I remember the last time I saw you. I remember the fear in your face. I think I knew then, that this would be the end. I was too young to understand, but somehow, I knew. I' and then it cuts off. I feel this son's sadness and confusion as if it is my own. But why though? Who are you? Who are you who haunts my dreams?" Pix said, staring at the papyrus as if it might give out more secrets.

He sat back in his chair, letting the papyrus sit on the desk. He could see- candles. A dark place with candles. Some kind of weird memorial. Nothing Egyptian, it looked nothing like that. And as soon as the image was in his head, it was gone. A fleeting imagining of something. Or a sign he was up too late again. It was, after all, after midnight, he confirned, checking his pocket watch. Perhaps sleep will cure him of his ills. Perhaps another expedition out to the oasis will yield more finds. Perhaps then he might be able to put these letters to rest, along with those who were being remembered.

#hermitcraft #empires smp #fanfic #pixlriffs #the lost prince au #reincarnation #past lives #letters to the dead #ancient egyptian au #i couldn't help myself #this is so self-indulgent #but archaeologist!pix is so precious to me #i had an idea and ran with it #so sue me lol #hermitfic

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mangetsuame · 8 months

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New ao3 post!

Chapter 2 will be out tommorow!

#hxh #hxh fanfic #phinfei #feitan #shalnark #black whale arc #letters to the dead

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daisyteardrops · 1 year

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Why do you cry?

You asked me that question when you saw me at home during my work hours. I didn't think about it then, but now I do.

Is it because I'm tired? Because I just lost a job? Because life feels like it's gone beyond my control? Is it because a loved one's remaining time is being counted in seconds by the heartbeat monitor? And he might die without knowing how much I truly love him?

I crossed my fingers with yours, watching, wishing, praying for a sign. Something to assure me that you were coming back. There was none. Not even the twitch of a muscle. You laid there, as still and pale as a corpse.

"Big bro," I called.

I didn't know if you could hear me. The doctor said that coma patients could hear what was going on around them. But he was the same person who said you would wake up in less than three months. That was five months ago.

Perhaps these people knew nothing. Or they made money off the sick by feeding their loved ones with false hopes.

Or perhaps, I hoped, it was a truly honest mistake.

I wondered how I would react if you woke up. Would I laugh or scream? Or just hug you and tell you how sorry I was?

I know I act so stupid sometimes. I lost my job and even though it wasn't your fault, I raged at you. I hurled hurtful words at you, and I knew, because I wanted you to hurt with me. I guess I was so full of bitterness, and I wanted to pour it out somewhere. I didn't know that I was doing that already through my tears. You asked my why I was crying, and I should have said that I was hurting because I just lost my dream job. If only I had.

It was because of me that you left home that night. It was because of me that you sped off straight into an accident. I've never felt so rotten in my life.

"Big brother," I called to your still form again.

You didn't still answer. The tear that rolled down my face was saturated with regret and tinged with hope. Hope that your other hand would somehow raise to wipe off the tears on my face. And what happened next wasn't a product of my hope, but just as miraculous.

It was a twitch.

Your finger twitched.

My eyes went to your face just in time to see your lashes flutter. Just before your eyes opened and one corner of your lips quirked up in the smirk I missed so much.

"Crybaby," you said.

I didn't laugh or scream. I didn't hug you and apologise to you and tell you how much I loved you. You were right. I was a crybaby. I cried so hard. So, so hard, I could taste the happiness in each teardrop. Why did I cry here? Because my heart was overflowing with happiness and it could burst if I didn't let out some.

I wish the dream didn't end there. I wish you had actually woken up and called me a cry baby. I wish I'd just slept off like you, in a coma, forever living in my dream. I wish the flatline beep of your heartbeat monitor didn't wake me up to my cruel, cruel reality.

I'm sorry, dear brother. I'm so sorry.

That's why I cried after you died.

So why do I cry? Because my heart can't contain my feelings.

You would still be here if I gave you that simple answer.

Love,

Your Crybaby.

#letters to the dead

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neptunejheart · 6 months

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Dearest mother,

I am glad you are dead. You were not good for me. I do see the good in you now, however it is clearly too late for us. I have healed so much of what you put me through and I have completely forgiven you. I still think of you obviously. I see now that you were more complex than I gave you credit for. I have gained a certain respect for you with time. I am constantly learning whenever I reflect upon my relationship with you. You did your best and I respect that. Your best still hurt me and I know that I truly deserved better. Had we had more time together, maybe things would have evolved into something better. Who knows? Thank you for the effort that you did put in with me. I see you now. I understand you more now. I am sorry I couldn't appreciate when you were here due to how hurt I was from you invalidating me constantly. I wanted to be seen too. I needed to be seen too. I needed you to see me. I needed you to love me properly. Again, it is too late. I cannot go back and we cannot get more time together to fix this. It is what it is... You will always be a part of me.

#letters #letter to my mother #feelings #letters to the dead #letter to the dead #my feelings #my post #my writing

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shelivesingalaxies · 8 months

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I guess the way to be free is to truly face my fears. I've written my thoughts to someone. A letter to the dead. No, I am not expecting a reply, of course. Just that, I feel that if I'd value anyone's opinion on my recent life choices, it'll be his.

But then as I was writing, I realized I didn't care anymore. Because it's my turn now to live. And I do not carry his responsibilities with me. I carry the responsibilities that I chose, that I am choosing, my own. He has no hold on me anymore.

Huh. That is a new thought.

#ponderings #freedom #letters to the dead #write to understand what is truly caging you #fly #musings #self #self-love #feelings #suppressed feelings no more #freed #freed writer

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4s1na · 2 years

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"my darling, you will never be unloved by me you are too well tangled in my soul"

— Atticus

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lyra-kane-the-queen-of-hearts · 1 month

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Friendly reminder that James never thought any of his bestfriends was the spy.

James never believed it when Mad-eye made comments about Sirius falling in with the wrong crowd just because of his family name.

James never believed it when Mary started suggesting Remus, the same Remus that used to cry when he'd hurt an animal during the full moon, he would never willing hurt any of them.

And James certainly never believed Dorcas when she wrote in her last letter that Peter was the spy. Peter was one of his longest closest friends, one of the only people left that he'd had since his childhood. Peter wouldn't do that to James, not after everything they'd been through....right?

#marauders #dead gay wizards #hp #james potter #jegulus #regulus black #wolfstar #sirius black #marlene mckinnon #lily evans #peter pettigrew #remus lupin #dorcas meadowes #mary macdonald #only one of them was right #and she died two weeks after she sent that letter

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souljournaler · 1 year

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A Letter to Nikki

cw: grief

Hey, Nikki.

How are you? I hope you're well, wherever you are.

I saw you in a dream a few nights ago. I'm still trying to figure out what that You meant by being there. The sight of You shook me right out of the moment-- I was so surprised to see you alive, and pregnant! And with some himbo-ass baby daddy! I couldn't believe I was seeing you. Maybe I was seeing Another You, in a Present that maybe could have Been if some things had gone differently.

I still wonder what could have happened if I'd answered you that night, decided to catch up. It had been a long time since we'd talked. I did want to know how you'd been. But I was scared. I wasn't ready to face anyone who might remind me of myself, of my own pain. Even if I had answered, I wonder if we still would have drifted apart anyway, sometime afterward. I have to accept that I'll never know.

I'm still so sorry I didn't answer.

I'm sorry we drifted apart at all. I wish I knew why I ended up letting you go. Sometimes it just happens, but I saw it happening and let it. Worse yet, I ignored you on purpose that night. Just because I was scared! Of what we'd talk about. Of how much it might hurt. Of how powerless I felt. That I might fall in love with you again, and still not be able to do anything but listen while you're hurting.

I understand if you don't, but I hope you can forgive me. I went through a lot in those times, and I was still dealing with my painful feelings by isolating, by not letting myself reach out, because I didn't want to risk the dread of a silent answer. Time felt different back then. The world felt different. My heart was closed, walled, what I thought was the best way to protect myself from hurting, but it just meant that I was hurting anyway, alone. I wish I had reached back. I wish I had the capacity then to hold space for you. Maybe you could have held space for me, too. Maybe we'd have become closer friends again, written a new chapter together. I have to accept that there's no way we'll be able to know now.

I hope you're getting to try again, in some way. I'm sorry you felt you had to leave early. I don't blame you, but that doesn't stop me from wishing you'd made it here. I hope you get to see the old world dying from a safe vantage point, with a nice view of the chaos, and the love springing from its rotting corpse. I hope you're here, in some form or another, when the new world is born. The world you deserved back then. The one you couldn't stand to wait for anymore.

I miss you. Thanks for visiting my dream. Truly, thank you. It was really, really nice to see you. I miss you.

solidarity forever and ever and ever,

Sol

#letters to the dead #cw: grief #journal

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positivelyadhd · 2 years

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i cannot stress enough how much of an impact changing the way you talk to yourself can have on your mental health. swapping out self deprecating jokes and changing unhealthy sentiments like "i hate myself" and "i want to die" to kinder, more forgiving ones like "i need a break" and "i'm trying" can make such a difference to how you view yourself. the things we say to ourselves become a part of our lives and so we deserve to me kinder to ourselves in our heads.

#my brain is a little fried so i'll probably rewrite this at some point but i hope this gets across my point?#the way its so normal at the moment to say things i wish was dead is honestly concerning #it's not healthy to think like that!!#self talk #positivity #love letters to you

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gnossienne · 8 months

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from A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller (1932-1953)

#letters to dead lovers #henry miller #anais nin

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fromdarzaitoleeza · 8 months

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"I wish I knew what to do with my life, what to do with my heart...I do nothing all day, boredom settles in, I look at the sky so I get to feel even smaller than I already feel and my mind keeps poisoning itself uselessly." ]

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of SylviaPlath

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lucidpeech · 2 months

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dear sister must die

#baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #the dark urge #orin the red #the dead three #fanart #bg3 bhaalspawn #i really love these two's relationship in like a sad messed up way yknow #like from his letter #durge doens't really antagonizes orin that much and even recognize her talent and eye for beauty #but probably thinks of her as bratty and annoying #since it is confirmed ingame that durge does have a childhood #i wonder if they were introduced to each other at a young age #peechy art : bg3

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missbaphomet · 2 years

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Gan,

I just learned that I missed your birthday. You would have been 75 on the 21st. On October 3rd, it will have been 6 years since you passed away. There's a kind of tradition on this website to post a gif of Lindsay Lohan saying the date on that day. It's from a movie called Mean Girls. I don't think you would have enjoyed it.

I stumbled across a subreddit called r/lastimages, and I posted that photo we took with the family at your 50th wedding anniversary. None of us knew you would pass 4 months later, but looking back on the photos you did look kind of sickly. If you felt sick, you never told us, that was just how you were. Unfortunately I seem to also have picked that up from you, for better or for worse.

I keep thinking of all the things you've missed. You didn't get to see me graduate or get my first "real" job. You didn't get to see the first car I bought with my own money. You didn't get to see me as my most authentic self, out as bisexual and properly medicated. You didn't get to meet any of my sister's boyfriends. I think you would really like her current boyfriend. She's a senior this year, and I think she's decided to go to UNA. I also have a pretty big pin collection, which I know you would have loved (except maybe the ones about Satan and such). Next I see Papa, I'll ask if he'll let me take home some of your vintage buttons. He still has lots of your belongings, including all of your bells. He misses you the most of all of us. I think the only time I've seen him cry was right after you were gone.

I do wish you had a headstone or some kind of memorial I could visit. I remember you taking me to the cemetery around Christmas to put a mini tree on your parent's grave. I was too young to understand it then, but I do now. You wanted to be cremated, and judging by what Mom said when we spoke about you last night, I think your remains were scattered. I don't know where. I still have your corsage that you gave me at your anniversary party. I remember SC was so mad because she wanted the corsage, but you gave it to me. Was it simply because I was the oldest, or was it something more?

I think I'm going to start visiting Papa more often. There's no telling how long he has left, and I don't want to regret not seeing him when he's gone. I wish I could have seen you more often. Sometimes I feel so guilty that I never wanted to see you because you always smelled like cigarettes. Now the smell of them only makes me think of you and puts a pit in my stomach. I wish you had stopped smoking when you had the chance.

I know you're proud of me, and that you love me, but I wish I could hear it just one more time, and I wish I could have said a proper goodbye.

I miss you.

#8302022 #letters to the dead #personal #mourning #grief #personal loss #death of a loved one

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ravengards-rogue · 1 month

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i thought of you so often.

arthur morgan x reader.

✧ tags : fem!reader (gendered language, explicit use of she/her in reference to reader), children / planning on children, generally sappiness, fluff, au where nothing bad happens to arthur hdskjsdkfhsj.

✧ wc : 2.4k (???)

✧ a/n : arthur morgan.... save me arthur morgan....also not a super original thought but i can't Stop thinking about it.

✧ synopsis : a collection of love letters, all unfinished, tucked somewhere you aren't meant to find them. oh, arthur loves you more than you knew.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

You try to keep out of Arthur's belongings.

He's owed some privacy, for one. More than that, you've never felt any reason to look into it. Arthur isn't a man of many words, though you catch moments of his introspection should you pry. He isn't stoic, neither. And above all things, he's kind. Really truly kind in a way that makes him different from other men.

You don't have any complaints about him is what you mean. Unlike the men you've loved before, there are no short-comings of Arthur that would drive you to wanting to investigate his own personal things. Especially something so personal like his journals, prior or present.

On top of that, you were there with him through everything. You were part of the gang and stayed by him when it all fell apart. It was towards the end of that that Arthur came to you near frenzied, told you his plans, his thoughts. Confided in you and no less than begged to go with him where he ran.

You loved Arthur enough to stay, and so things ended - and you ran. There isn't much his journal could tell that you couldn't surmise on your own.

It's been years now, and you've long since left that life. You live with Arthur quietly, peaceful in the moments with a garden and kitty sweet as sugar.

It's a good life. An honest, quiet one sometimes to the point of being boring. You rarely miss the action, though occasionally you'll take up a bounty just to feel alive and make some money.

Mostly though, you live as unassuming folk. No bloodshed, no wardens, no gunslinging.

Been talk between you both about having a baby, recently. Serious talk. You've made some money between here and there, and you've got a good life. You've traveled too. But it gets a little lonely, and you don't really get your fill with just Jack when John and Abi are ways away.

Before anything like that, though - you need to clear some space. Empty out some belongings and things collecting dust. Living in one place for too long creates all sorts of mess, you find. When Arthur is home to help, he does - but he's been busy lately figuring something out with Charles. Some business venture related to ranching that you know nothing about so far. They'll tell you when its ready.

Usually when you're tidying, you keep to just your things, or your shared things - but Arthur has lived more life than you. It shows in that big closet space filled with nick-knacks he has yet to toss.

You'd mentioned it to him not too long ago and he'd given you permission to go through them.

(A kiss to your forehead from chapped lips and hands holding your waist, Arthur hums in acknowledgement as you ask his permission.

"Ain't nothing I gotta hide from you. Do whatever you need.)

But like you said - you try to keep your nose out of his business if it's not necessary for you to be in it in anyway.

You weren't trying to look through his things, really. You started cleaning, worked your way to that last box. Up on a shelf in his closet, a little too high for you to reach easily. You made a misstep and dropped the damn thing. It barely missed your head as the whole thing fell open, and out came journals and papers and photographs.

You've always known Arthur to be sentimental, so none of it has been particularly surprising. A photo of wolves and him on a horse, the picture from John and Abigail's engagement. Some other scraps of sentimental value.

And then there was a journal. Not Arthur's journal that he's always using, but another you've never seen before. You know Arthur journals, seen the thing plenty though you never look unless he shows you first.

A journal with a dark brown stained leather binding, fallen open and your name scrawled out in pencil lead at the top of it.

The curiosity got the better of you, okay? Not your damn fault.

So you're thinking on it.

The fabric of your skirt is pooled out underneath you as you hold the thing in your hands, sitting down on the ground surrounded by things. You've stowed away everything else that fell out from the box after ensuring it was intact, including Arthur's journals. Everything with the exception of the one you're holding.

Some guilt eats at you. You don't wanna upset him potentially by having looked. Even if he gave you permission, looking in the damn thing is a little different. But your name was there so clearly, and well - you didn't think he wrote about you. Apart from here and there, maybe.

You hold the book out in front of you with a sigh, looking fondly at his name ingrained in the leather. You press your forehead against it with, resigning yourself completely.

"Lord forgive my pryin'," You mumble, hoping it's enough to absolve you.

Your heart feels funny as you let your fingers trace over the hard edge of the front cover, one eye shut as you start to open it slow.

The first few pages are nothing special.

A page outlining who the journal belongs to and when it was started, and some doodles of yarrow and oleander. The pages after that filled with mundane entries. About people he met or things he saw, all endearing to you. The corners of your lips tug up slightly.

You really love this man helplessly.

You flip through a few more pages, many of them blank before writing starts to appear again. Little by little, you find passages. You look to the dates up at the corner (though not all of them have one) and trace the timeline. This is from all the way back in Horseshoe Overlook.

It feels like ages ago now.

You look at a page with no date, and reading the writing in it. There's doodles of flowers and trees along the bottom of the page. The words are easy enough to make out - because Arthur has the most unusually beautiful handwriting.

There's some entries about you. At first, they all include your name in some context. Mentioned in the same way Arthur might mention Hosea or Abigail. The further you go, the less you see it. The more you become her and she.

It's a trend. The longer you read, the less there is about anyone else. Just you and all your silly idiosyncrasies tucked between pages. Something lovestruck and foolish lights its match in you.

Saw a body hanging at the tracks at Valentine. A gruesome sight. I told her about it and she laughed. Asked me to take her to see it. A strange woman, by all accounts.

You feel yourself smile a little as you continue to flip through the pages.

She joined me riding into town today. Said she had some business to attend but would not tell me any details. After, she came with me to purchase a new gun. I engraved a snake into it's handle, per her request.

Another few pages littered with drawings of delicate berries and waterfalls before you stumble across more writing. The more you flip, the longer the passages become you.

You can't tear your eyes away.

Rained today. Nothing too terrible or worth mentioning, except that she nearly caught a cold playing in it. I brought her coffee to keep her warm, but could not scold her further upon seeing her delight.

Another passage, this time written with messier hand writing. A coffee stain splatters on the white of the page.

Your heart tugs on itself. Swells about a thousand sizes. To think he wrote so much of your time together between these pages.

You read and read and read - and each passage is a little more mundane at the last. Some pages go on in vivid detail, but others are so short you aren't sure what to make of the fact he wrote them at all. As if such little details were important enough to keep in mind.

I picked a flower for her. I thought it would suit her taste. It was white with delicate petals. I did not know the name.

She wore it in her hair this evening. I find I can't stop grinning.

One passage on the next few pages, longer than the rest, catches your eye. From later in your time together, written when you were in Leymone. Near Scarlett Meadows and before the mess in Saint Denis.

After Arthur had been kidnapped.

I have gone on and on about the business with Colm O'Driscoll in many entries before this one. Yet, I find it difficult to forget. Many times I have come close to death, and still no experience lingers on my mind quite like this one. Everyone has done their best to look after me. For that I am grateful, though I do not care for being looked after. What use am I like this, I wonder? Perhaps, I should simply be grateful to be alive and in one piece, if a little uglier than I was. Alongside Miss Grimshaw and Miss Tilly, she has been by my side while I recovered. Such a carefree woman and yet I have seen her cry and weep over me countless times in the last few weeks alone. The decent man in me is apologetic for causing sorrow. Perhaps, it is the outlaw in me that feels some strange relief or satisfaction. Her fussing does not give me any grief. If anything, I find myself all the more endeared. Such a decent woman does not belong in a place like this. I hope she is able to go somewhere far away and live peacefully. I am not so shameless to want anything more. The time together we have spent, I will make sure to cherish.

Something painful and pitiful tugs at your heart. Even when Arthur admitted his feelings for you, he had started it on a similar tangent. You tell him often that you're the one who feels out of bounds with him. That a man as decent and as honest as him often feels like too much for you to have so easily.

A tear slips from your eye and you laugh at your own sentimentality, wiping it away before it can splatter onto the pages.

The further you read, the more sporadic entries become. You find that there are pages filled with sketches of you, but many of them are scratched out or half erased - like he did not find them good enough. Of your side profile, of your hands, of you pointing at a target with a gun. You feel a strange feeling of love wash over you.

Instead of concrete thoughts, you're met with Arthur's abstract. Subtle complexities and studies. There's honest tenderness in the way he sketches you and the words he chooses to caption each with. Lighter, thinner lines. Smaller doodles like stray daydreams caught onto a page.

You've never doubted Arthur in his love for you, quiet man he is - but it proves to overwhelm when presented to you in such a way.

You get to back pages. There, you're finally met with more writing. Except, instead of journal entries, there's the start of letters. You find your name at the top of the page.

Over and over. Love letters, all unfinished or scrapped. Written over and over and over, but not completed. There's tens of them at least. You've never received a love letter from Arthur before, though it's nothing you fault him for.

Now you're almost glad. You like this much better.

My darling girl My muse The better half of me, I must find some way to tell you all of what I think of you. It seems no words do it justice, I'm afraid. Still, it is in my best interest to try.

Damn that man.

When you find yourself starting to weep, you don't fight the feeling. You merely shut the book closed and set it in your lap before crying into your hands.

Such overwhelmingly happy tears. You feel off balance. If the whole world turned on its head this very minute, you're unsure you'd notice. What a decent, honest man you've come to love. What a tender one.

In the middle of your crying, you don't hear the door open or close. Nor do you hear Arthur's heavy footfall until he's in the doorway, with a voice worried half to death.

"Sweetheart, what in the hell?"

You turn your head to look at him, watching his eyes widen at your tear stained face. You clamber to your feet hurriedly, book dropping onto the ground next to you as you throw yourself at him as soon as you can.

Arthur is a steady enough man not to stumble when you do, though you can feel his apprehension. Eventually, he circles his arms around your waist. His hugs are strong. Bout strong as him and then some. An arm wrapped around your waist, the other crossed over your back all around your shoulder. Full pressure as he squeezes you tight, patting the back of your head.

"I leave you alone for a few hours. What has gotten into you, little lady?"

You pull back and and look at him, wet lashes and all, before leaning up to kiss him. Arthur meets your lips chastely at first before making a noise of surprise as you kiss him further. You use both hands to grab his face as you do, scruff scratching against your skin. His lips are soft, welcoming. He melts into the touch, so easily - blue eyes lovestruck as you pull away.

"You know I love you, don't you Arthur? More than anyone in this crazy world we live in,"

His face softens visibly. He smiles at you, touching his head to yours.

"Somehow, I do. Though, I'm wonderin' what the hell brought this on."

You tuck your face against his chest, feeling his laughter reverb through you at the way you cling to him so fervently. You sniffle as you talk.

"Found your journal. The one about me,"

He goes stiff, then silent. When you look up again, he's blushing red. He pinches his brow.

"Lord, I'd forgotten all about it,"

You shake your head.

"Ain't nothing for you to be embarrassed about. You are so wonderful,"

He pouts at you. Your heart swells. "You ain't helping with the embarrassment."

You hold him further. Hug him so tight, worried he'll disappear if you don't.

"I love you, Arthur."

"You already told me once, didn'tcha?"

"And I'll tell you one thousand times over," You emphasize, pouting at him. "Really. I love you,"

"I love you too sweetheart," His hand cups your face, thumb brushing along your waterline. "Don't cry no more. Spoils that pretty face."

"I'll try but I don't know if it's all out of me,"

Arthur laughs, pressing a kiss against your hairline. "Guess I'll just have to wipe your tears."

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

#zero.writes #rogues love letters #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fluff #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 fluff #red dead redemption x reader #this is so lovesick and silly i feel so miserable #I AM A JOHN GIRL. BUT. well that deadbeat father and bastard isnt gonna write you love letters like arthur im afraid

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