sometimesitrytowritethings - Tumblr blog

sometimesitrytowritethings · 3 years ago

Text

Revenant

Be sure to visit @oc-draw for the entire image!!!

Pairing: None

Word count: 6k

Warnings: Angst, Canon-typical violence, Character death, Spoilers for chapter 4 onwards

Summary: It was just a flesh wound. Sean would be totally fine.

Notes: My submission for the @rdrbigbang, for the FANTASTIC art made by @oc-draw! Go check out their awesome piece here: https://oc-draw.tumblr.com/post/664083738769178624

-----

“Now it don’t feel right? I coulda told you-”

The last words he says The last words he will ever say.

A loud bang, a sharp pain, and his body hits the ground. The blood pools around his head, mixing with the red of the Lemoyne clay.

He is dead.

And then, as if the world has turned completely on his head, he isn’t.

The gunshots are no longer ringing in his ears and he feels himself being hauled into a cart before he sees black again. “I think this one is still alive!”

Flashes of the back of a wagon, the whitewashed interior of a saloon, the smell of strong alcohol. They all come to him as if in a dream, intermingling themselves with his memories.

“Now, Sean, my boy, no politics is politics. You’ll see.”

“Wait, something about this doesn’t feel right…”

“Dutch is good at seeing things in people.”

“With a light, light heart, I rove along!”

“Dutch said we was gonna keep dealing with them until we find this gold.”

“Oh, come on then...”

BANG.

His eyes open in a flash. The room is white, blindingly so, and there is a loud ringing in his ears that is only drowned out by the screaming pain in his head.

He groans and tries to reach up to his head, to massage this pain away, only to find it wrapped tightly in bandages. They are covering the entire right side of his head, thick and scratchy.

His groan alerts someone, apparently, as he hears a nearby door open with a loud creak. He again groans in pain at the sound. He must be desperately hungover. What the hell happened last night?

“Wh...wher’mi?” he grumbles, finding himself barely able to form the words. “Wassgoinon?”

He can’t exactly make out the stranger’s face, but even if he could, he isn’t entirely sure he would recognise them. At least, the slightly nasal voice isn’t one he's heard before.

“Well, son, I’m glad to see you up,” he says, pulling out a stack of worn papers. “It’s been a few weeks, we thought we would lose you there for a minute.”

“Lose?” he croaks. Jesus, his throat is sore. It's like he hasn’t spoken in weeks.

“Yes, but that seems to be common with these cases. We saw it with Mr. Gage too, may he rest in peace,” the doctor explains. The sound of footsteps come closer, followed by several cold fingers tracing the edges of his bandage. It's lifted slightly, and Sean would have flinched if he could move. “But, your wound seems to be healing nicely. You are awfully lucky, young man.”

Lucky? Wound?

“Now, we have unfortunately not been able to identify you. Do you have any family in Rhodes who may be missing you?”

“F… Family?”

“Yes, son, a wife? Children? You were found with the bodies after the town drove those damn outlaws from town, so I’ve heard,” the doctor explains, moving to sit in a nearby chair. “Luckily, I was in San Denis at the time, and you were transported here for treatment.”

As the doctor spoke, Sean can feel his eyes beginning to droop closed.

“You don’t give a damn ��bout nobody but yourself.”

Arthur? Was Arthur here?

“I’ve called in my partner, Dr. Harlow to assist in your treatment. Second time I’ve seen this kind of thing.”

“Oh, you act all high and mighty, but you’re no better than the rest of us.”

“Micah, Arthur! Police!”

“It really is a medical anomaly, pure luck that you survived at all, but we’ve done our best to make sure it stays that way.”

“Leave him, let’s go cowpoke!”

“Luckily, Dr. Harlow has a fantastic practice in New Hannover, we’ve brought…”

The room goes dark as he drifts once again into a restless sleep.

---

The next time he wakes, night has fallen, and darkness has enveloped the room.

He can move his head slightly now, although a sharp pain ran through his neck to his spine when he does. Slowly, gently, he turns his head to the side to survey the room.

A single oil lamp burns in the corner of the room, illuminating a table littered with papers, medicines, and various tools. Otherwise, the room is empty, and the only sounds to be heard is the chorus of locusts out of the open window. Where is he?

He tries his best to remember what happened, how he had arrived here. The doctor said something about a shootout? Bodies?

A few, blurry memories of Rhodes come to his mind - burning the tobacco fields, a job from the Greys - but nothing solid to help him remember.

All too soon, the little energy he has is spent, and he finds himself surrounded by darkness.

---

Later, the sound of birds reaches his ears, pulling him from a dreamless sleep. Gentle hands work at his head, unraveling bloodstained bandages as he opens his eyes. Early morning sunlight streams through the window, illuminating the room.

“Oh!” comes the shocked voice of a woman, standing at the head of his bed. “It’s good to see you up,” she says quietly, comfortingly. “Let me finish changing your bandages and we will see if you can manage some breakfast.”

He doesn't say a word, and instead lets her continue her work in silence, until his head is free of the wrappings and she bustles quietly from the room. Slowly, he lifts his hand to the left side of his head, to feel the damage. His fingers brushed lightly across a large wound, only now healing over, the once smooth flesh of his forehead now cratered and scabbed.

“Fuck…” he grumbles, pulling his hand away as the door creaks open again.

The nurse from earlier, a pretty, young woman about his age, comes in with a steaming bowl and cup on a wooden tray. “All right, you must be starving,” she says, setting the tray on an old, rickety bedside table. “You can try to feed yourself, if you’d like. You seem like you’re functioning well enough this morning.” She pulls up a chair and sat next to him. “I’ll be here if you need help.”

He nods slightly, before taking the spoon from the soup bowl… and promptly spilling the entire thing in his lap. Luckily, a thick, itchy woollen blanket saves his bits from any physical damage, but his pride is admittedly slightly dented. “I…” he starts, throat still dry. He coughs lightly, ignoring the pain that shoots through his head, and starts again. “If you could help, please.”

She smiles softly at him, taking the spoon from his hand. “Of course,” she said, gently, spooning a bit of soup from the bowl and bringing it to his lips. She must see the hesitation in his eyes, because what she says next answers the question he doesn't have the energy to ask: “You don’t have to be embarrassed, you know. It’s not everyday someone gets shot in the head and survives to tell the tale.”

---

The next few weeks pass by in a blur of increasing wakefulness, until he finds himself up and walking around, smoking cigarettes on a small balcony. He is able to move again, he is able to speak again, and he has finally come somewhat to terms with what has happened.

Not that he can recall it.

The vague memories of meeting Arthur, Micah, and Bill in Rhodes have returned, but they are constantly in flux - intermingling with dreams and nightmares. In some, he is killed and buried in a grave near their camp. In others, the bullet misses him entirely and he rides off with his friends.

If it weren’t for the giant wound on the front and back of his skull, and the insistence of the doctors that he was found next to dead, he isn’t entirely sure that he would be able to recognise the truth.

Instead, he tries not to think of it anymore. The past is blurry enough as it is, he doesn’t need to give himself even more of a headache trying to remember this as well. Instead, he has taken to dulling the pain the best way he knows how - with plenty of liquor.

Despite the protests of his physicians, he somehow manages to convince that pretty nurse to bring him a bottle of whisky - the good stuff - one night. He downs it as fast as he knows how, and now, uninhibited by pain nor logic, he finds himself unbuttoning the nurse’s dress during the middle of the night. This is exactly the kind of healing he's been in need of.

Morning comes all too soon for his taste, and he is somehow completely alone in bed, fully-clothed, and wondering if the entire night had been a dream. A quarter-full bottle of whisky at his side and a different kind of splitting headache tell him that, at the very least, that part of last night was true.

The sun is once again shining through the windows, illuminating the whitewashed room that has become all too familiar during the last few weeks of his tenancy. God, the white is starting to burn his eyes. It was all too clean, too familiar and he needed to get out.

He had brought the topic up with his doctors a couple of times already. “I’m fit as a fiddle, see doc? No use keepin’ me hidden away inside, let me out to show the world your masterpiece!”

Naturally, his reasoning is shot down each time.

Of course, the doctors didn’t count on ol’ Sean MacGuire being so clever and slippery. He has cased more than his fair share of homes back in the day, the only difference with this is that he was breaking out, not in. The doctors come to visit every day between 9:00 and 10:00 in the morning, according to an old clock hanging above the door frame. This visit usually lasted no more than an hour of poking and prodding. At 11:30, the nurse comes to change his bandages. From then on, the schedule varied considerably.

So, that was his window. Between the doctors and the nurse, he would pull on his fresh clothes, slip out the window, and be on his merry way.

From what he could tell, there is a saloon down the street - that will be his first stop while he wraps his mind around the situation. And had a drink.

The door to the room opens with an all too familiar creeeeeak, and he is greeted by the wrinkled faces of his doctors. “Well now, Mr. MacGuire, how are you doing this morning?” asks Dr. Harlow in his very distinct northeastern accent. “I see you’ve had some fun last night.” He purses his lips and looks pointedly at the bottle of whisky.

This isn’t the first time he's been at the receiving end of a disappointed stare, and it certainly won't be the last. Nevertheless, he finds himself getting fed up with these doctors and their damn holier-than-thou attitude. Defiantly, he looks Dr. Harlow directly in the eye and reaches for the whisky bottle before taking a long swig. “Nothing cures a headache like a little hair’o’the dog, right?” he snaps, enjoying the familiar burn of the liquor in his throat.

“Mr. MacGuire, I need to implore-” begins Dr. Williams.

“Shut up!” comes his voice, suddenly. He is seeing red. Pushing himself from the bed, he stands and storms toward the doctors, reaching for a phantom gun at his side out of habit. “Get off your damn high horses and let me go! I’m sick o’ being poked and prodded for science. Let. Me. Leave.” He has no idea where this is coming from, he had been impulsive before the shootout, but this is something entirely different. This is pure, unadulterated anger.

Who is this person?

The two doctors stand in front of him, completely shocked and unmoving. A tension has overcome the room, and he has no idea what to do with it. So, like his mentor before him, he ran.

His escape plan is fully abandoned as he snatches his clothes from the floor and dashes down the stairs and out the door. The doctors, apparently shocked at his sudden action, take a moment to process the situation before running after him.

But Sean MacGuire is clever. Sean MacGuire is slippery. Sean MacGuire wouldn’t be caught by a couple of old bags.

As quickly as his decrepit feet would carry him, he darted out of the building and up a small hill into a nearby copse of trees. This should keep them off his tail. He ran forward, upward, until his legs were ready to give out beneath him, and then he collapsed.

Laying on the ground, his head is pounding. He is unsure if it's from the sudden exercise, his injury, or his hangover- but it is stronger than he’s ever experienced before. The world spins before him, tossing him back and forth until he finally leans to his side, retches, and passes out.

---

He awakens later, smelling strongly of piss and vomit, to the sounds of voices in the woods and a crackling fire.

“Those damn fuckers ‘re gonna get it, ya hear?”

“They can’t come in ‘ere ‘n’ take our home right from under us!”

“We should set the feds on’ere asses.”

“Yeah, that’d teach’em!”

Shit. Shit shit shit shit. Those are definitely not the voices of friendly neighbors who will

willingly take him in to clean himself off. He needs to go, and he needs to go now.

But where?

He has no idea where he was, and he sure as hell is not going back to that clinic. He has no weapons, no money, no food. Luckily, his vomit has missed the pile of clean clothes he had grabbed on his way out, but other than that - nothing. He is completely on his own now.

But it isn’t the first time.

Shit, he had made it here from Ireland on his own. Found the gang on his own. Hell, he had survived the damn bounty hunters on his own. This should be easy enough.

The talking continues, the nearby group ranting and raving about someplace called “Beaver Hollow” as he pulls on his crumpled clothing as quietly as possible. His head is still spinning, and his throat is desperately dry, but he does his best to make his way in the opposite direction of the group.

But his legs are wobbly, essentially unused for nearly two months. He can barely see his hand in front of his face in the darkness. And, these men practically live in this wood. This is their turf, and he is not welcome in it.

He takes a few dizzy steps, and immediately the voices stop.

“Jeb, you hear that?” one of the men says after a moment.

Sean stands as still as humanly possible, hoping they will ignore it and continue their conversation.

“Yeah, I heard it,” a second voice responds. Damn it. “It sounds like we got ourselves some company, boys.” He hears the sound of the leaves crunching under the group’s feet as they stood, the cocking of their guns aimed in his direction. “Let’s catch us a snake.”

The group bursts into maniacal laughter and charges toward him.

Without a second thought, Sean bursts forward, through the trees and down the hill as quickly as his weak legs can carry him. The sound of vile hoots and hollers, laughter, and the occasional gunshot follows him at all too close a range. He tries to push all the energy he can muster into his legs, but they are exhausted, unused to running for so long. Adrenaline and inertia are all that keep him going.

The men draw closer, taunting him, and he soon hears the all-too-familiar sound of a gunshot and a bullet whizz past his ear.

This is it. This was how he was actually going to die. Not in some dusty street in Rhodes, where at least his friends could have found his body. No, he would die here. In the middle of an overgrown forest on a mountain - the only people aware of it would be the damn hillbillies that kill him.

Leaves crunch under his feet as he keeps running. His lungs are aflame, burning from the strain. His head is throbbing, his heart is pounding. He can feel himself ready to collapse again, ready to meet his maker for good.

And then he sees it.

His godsend, his savior.

Lights.

Not many, but some. A small town is situated just ahead of him, down the rest of the hill and across some railroad tracks. God, if he can make it, if his body doesn’t completely give out before then, he will be safe.

He would be in the company of people - real people, not some backwoods hicks - and these fuckers wouldn’t dare chase him into town.

The thought was enough to give him a burst of energy, and despite the burning in his legs, the fire in his lungs, he pushed desperately forward. He reached the railroad tracks, next to a dilapidated old rail station, and stumbled forward. Through the darkness, he could see the silhouettes of a few people on the street ahead of him.

“H-help!” he croaks, feebly attempting to wave his hands in the air. “Help! Please!”

The laughter and hollering behind him turn into a cacophony of angry swearing as he makes it to the light of a small, flickering street lamp. The people on the street stared at him, strangely, no one comes to his aid. A few final, irritated gunshots ring out before the men chasing him turn to leave, and Sean collapses to his knees in the dim light.

He was still alive.

He isn’t sure how long he stays there, still as a corpse, staring across the street and into the nearby river. He probably would have stayed there forever, a statue frozen in time from his own fear and exhaustion. However, he soon feels himself being yanked up by his armpits, and then led, staggering, through the rundown town.

The sound of a piano playing the familiar notes of The Arkansas Traveller greets him as a pair of doors swing open, and he is unceremoniously dumped into a chair. “Can we get a couple whiskeys, please, Josie?” he vaguely hears through the ringing in his ears.

Sean looks around in a daze. The dimly lit saloon is visited by plenty of patrons, many of whom are already completely gone for the evening. It smells strongly of smoke and sweat, and the rhythmic sounds of the pianoforte rises above the din of chatter, ringing sharply in his ears. He should already be well in his cups, completely drowning out any thoughts that might threaten to plague his mind.

As if God himself has heard his thoughts, a full glass of amber lifeblood is set in front of him with a clank on the wooden table.

“Here you go, son,” comes the voice again. He turns his head slightly, and gets a good look at his savior. An older man, with long, gray hair, an unkempt beard, and dressed tattered clothing. “Drink up, now.”

Sean looks back to the whisky, picks up the glass, and swallows the liquid in one gulp. The familiar burn slides comfortingly down his throat, helping to bring him back to reality. “Thanks,” he says, not finding the energy for his usual witty retorts.

The man laughs and slaps him lightly on the back. “You’re welcome, son,” he says, his accent thick. “Now, let me introduce myself. Hamish Sinclair.”

An old, calloused hand is held in Sean’s direction, which he takes to shake. “Sean MacGuire.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, Mr. MacGuire,” Hamish responds, quickly flagging down the bartender for another round of drinks. “Now, have another drink and tell me how I found you half-dead in the middle of the street.”

Whisky is poured into his empty glass, which Sean again downs almost immediately. This Hamish seems like a good enough man, he had dragged him off the street after all, and as much as Sean loves to talk, telling the story of the past few weeks seems wrong. It's surreal almost, thinking about what has happened. He'd been shot in the head, somehow lived to tell the tale, recovered, ran away, nearly been killed again, and now… well, now he is sitting in a bar sharing drinks with a stranger.

If he didn’t know better, he'd say it was just the ramblings of a madman.

“I…” he begins, staring down into his empty glass. “I got separated from my friends.”

For the first time in his life, Sean shows restraint. There's no use telling this man everything - he won't believe the tale anyway. And god, if he does, he will surely be shipped off to the madhouse as soon as he says a word.

Hamish leans back in his chair and takes a sip from his glass. With his free hand he fiddles with his right pant leg. “Ah,” he begins. “I see.” He contemplates for a moment, looking at the cobwebs on the ceiling. “Separated from your friends.”

Sean nods, unsure where this is going.

“You know, same thing happened to me when I was your age. Left for dead by my friends, in the middle of a battlefield,” he explains with a sideways glance at Sean’s forehead. “Course, I only lost a leg, in the end.” He clears his throat and leans forward.

Sean glances down as Hamish lifts his pant leg, showing the bottom of a wooden limb.

“And… did you find them again?” Sean asks, hesitantly. In all honesty, he thought of finding the gang again, but has absolutely no idea where to begin searching. For all he knows, they finally made it to Tahiti while he was laying around trying not to die.

“I did,” Hamish nods, a solemn look washing over his face. “Well, some of them. A few of ‘em died in the meantime. Few of ‘em ran away. Weren’t pretty, the end of the war.” He reaches up with his hand and orders another whisky. “‘Course, it was really just by chance I found any of ‘em at all. ‘N by then, well, most had assumed me dead anyway. Moved on with their lives.”

Sean tears his eyes away from Hamish’s face, looking again into his glass.

Arthur, John, Karen, they wouldn’t move on so quickly, would they? They wouldn’t pack up and forget about him entirely. Right?

“They… there’s no way,” Sean finds himself saying, anger and sadness bubbling up in him once again. “They wouldn’t just forget me.” Again, he finds himself working up into a dizzying rage. He sees red, tears threatening to spill again from his dried eyes. “They wouldn’t!” He finds himself pounding on the table with a clenched fist.

In the back of his mind, he's confused. These emotions, this anger, this had never been who he was before. But now it seems like anger, frustration, is all he feels.

Who is he?

“Now, son, that’s not…”

Sean doesn't let him finish his sentence, and instead stands and storms out of the building. A few nearby horses are spooked by the sudden slamming of the saloon doors, but he pays them no mind. Without a second thought, and as if his body is controlled by someone entirely different, he unhitches a horse, mounts up, and rides from the town at a gallop.

His friends won't forget him. They wouldn’t abandon him. They wouldn’t leave him.

And if they do?

He will kill them.

He rides for as long as the horse allows. Through forests, climbing trails on mountain sides, across rivers. Away from that damn, dirty town. Away from his fury.

He would have continued for hours; riding like the devil himself was upon him, wallowing in a horrific mixture of anger, loathing and pity. But, the stolen horse soon began to protest.

It starts with an agitated huff, a slight kick of its hind legs, until the damn beast is completely mad - bucking and screaming to get the stranger off its back. Somehow, Sean manages to hold on for dear life, his sullen mood suddenly forced away by the frantic movements.

But he is exhausted too, mentally and physically, and cannot hold on for long.

With a well timed kick of its hind legs, the horse manages to throw him. He feels the all-too-familiar feeling of his head slamming onto the hard ground, and yet again, his world goes black.

He awakens later, head throbbing more than usual, to the sound of frantic shouts and gunfire in the distance. Horses cry through the night, adding to the cacophony of chaos as he tries desperately to gather his wits.

He sits up slowly, grasping at the back of his head to the spot of the once gaping wound. As he pulls his hand away, his heart drops at the sight of his hand covered in sticky, red blood.

Shit.

He doesn’t know much about medicine, but he is damn sure this is not a good sign.

He needs to find help. Now.

Slowly, head spinning, he balances himself on a nearby tree and pulls himself to his feet. He has no idea where he is, he has no idea where the next town may be, but the gunshots continue to ring in the distance. It may mean his death, his actual death, this time, but at least he knew there would be people. And, presumably soon, the law.

He was never smart, but he knew how to stay alive… mostly. And yet, this may have been the stupidest, deadliest thing he had ever done.

He ran dizzily towards the sound of gunfire.

The sounds are coming from closer than he had anticipated - either that or he has somehow blacked out for the majority of the distance. They continue to ring in his ears as he closes in on a lit clearing in the thick trees.

He stumbles into the clearing, vision clouded by smoke. Immediately, he recognises the ruins of an abandoned campsite. Tents are ablaze, crates of goods are scattered across the clearing and the gunshots echo even louder in his ears. He takes a minute to steady himself, feeling overwhelmed by the adrenaline suddenly flowing through his body, keeping him upright, before slowly stepping into the flaming camp.

Almost immediately, he regrets it. His foot comes into contact with something soft and heavy and flashes of his past echo through his mind. His father’s corpse, piles of bodies after a shootout in Blackwater, being left for dead in Rhodes.

He knew the feeling of a dead body well, but was not expecting it to house such a familiar face. He looked down as he gathered his balance once again and stared into the glassy eyes of Susan Grimshaw.

Shit.

Shit. Damn it. Fuck!

She has been shot through the torso, left lying in front of a burning wagon. She had been nothing but horrible to him during his time with the gang - constantly calling him lazy, good-for-nothing, a layabout. Constantly nagging him to pull his weight, do any sort of work.

She had been right, of course, but that hadn’t made Sean like her any the more.

But then, he had never wished her dead. Not like this.

He manages to tear his eyes from the corpse of the woman and look around the ruins of the camp. Even through the flames, he can make out Dutch’s tent - always ostentatious compared to the others. Arthur’s wagon stands across from it, aflame like the rest of the tents scattered around the clearing.

He knows this camp. He had desperately clawed his way up from hell to find this camp.

But it seemed that hell had found them first.

Gunshots continued to ring out in the distance, and he realises this isn’t over. He has found Mrs. Grimshaw, but no other bodies seem to be in the area.

If he can find them, if he can help them, then maybe the rest of the gang could still come out of this alive.

And, goddamn it, he will do everything he could to make that happen.

He follows the sounds of gunshots and shouts as quickly as his beaten body allows him, through caves and a forest, until he reaches the foot of a small mountain. A horse, which he quickly recognises as Arthur’s, lies dead in the grass in front of him. This only spurs him further on.

His legs are aflame, his head is pounding, as he climbs the steep cliffside. The gunshots have all but subsided now, but he can hear the sound of voices - a heated argument only a short distance away.

“I got you now, black lung!”

“Right, you’re right.”

“I’m a survivor, black lung! A survivor! That’s all there is - livin’ and dyin’!”

He has heard those voices. He knows those voices. His friends. His family.

He charges ahead, stumbling over rocks on his way up, as he hears the sound of bodies hitting the cold, stone ground.

He needs to hurry.

He hears gasps and the sound of fists on skin from just above him.

“You know, black lung,” Micah’s voice, just above his head, just out of his sight. “I’ve been waitin’ for this.” The sound of another punch reaches his ears “You’re a goddamn traitor.”

Sean stops in his tracks, shocked. A traitor? Who the hell would dare-

“I got what I wanted…” Sean’s head almost bursts at the sound of Arthur Morgan’s familiar voice, arguing with Micah in between the sound of punches.

Arthur?

Arthur damn Morgan?

Arthur Morgan had betrayed the gang?

There was no way. It was completely, utterly impossible.

“Still got a little fight in ya, have you, boy?” Micah growls, and Sean hears sounds of the other man gasping for air above his head. “After we’re done, I’m gonna kill Marston, too.”

More punches, and the sound of metal hitting rock and skidding towards the edge.

“Milton told me...” Arthur spits, groaning as another punch lands. Sean again hears a body hit the ground.

Both men are silent for just a moment, breathing heavily. “Told you what, black lung?” Micah taunts. Again, the familiar crunch of boots on rock reaches Sean. “Told you that I set the whole thing up? In Rhodes? In San Denis?” Micah laughs, an acidic, poisonous laugh that injects itself into Sean’s veins. “That I got your friends killed? Hosea and Lenny? Just weeding out the weak ones, is all.”

Hosea.

Lenny.

They were dead?

Sean isn’t sure what overcomes him, but he sees red. His vision is once again clouded, but this time it wasn’t from smoke or the pounding in his head. This time, it was from pure, unadulterated anger. In a swift motion, he bounds up the last few feet of the trail and finds himself at the top of the mountain. Arthur is on the ground in front of him, with Micah looming menacingly over him, ready to finish what he had started.

And near his feet, he spots it. Sean’s saving grace, his revenge. A gun.

He picks it up, the familiar weight of a weapon in his hand giving him just the little drive that he needed. Slowly, steadily, he steps forward and aims.

“You know as well as I do that the gang can’t survive with leeches, black lung,” he continues, “So I took care-”

BANG.

The look of shock on Micah’s face at seeing Sean rise from the dead is quickly wiped away as he falls to the ground in an unmoving heap.

And there is silence.

No villain’s monologue to echo through the night. No gunfire ringing in his ears.

Just, silence.

Until a cough from behind him draws his attention.

“S-Sean?” comes the sputtering voice of Arthur Morgan. It is weaker than Sean had ever heard, exhausted and morose. “Sean? Is that you?”

He turns to face the man, ready to throw a sarcastic quip in his direction, until he actually sees him. Sean had thought that he looked bad, but somehow Arthur Morgan looked a thousand times worse.

The once bulky cowboy is collapsed on the ground before him, barely skin and bones. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with black from a lack of sleep, and as he wiped his mouth Sean could see the spots of crimson on his frail hand.

“Arthur?” Sean staggers toward his friend, his energy beginning to fail him now that the worst of this unexpected fight seemed to be over. His knees hit the ground next to the prostrate body of his friend, who looks at him weakly. Tears well up in his eyes. “Yeah, it’s me, English,” he confirms, looking sadly over his friend once again. “Takes a lot more than that to get rid’o ol’ Dead-Eye MacGuire, you know?”

Arthur laughs slightly, which quickly turns into a fit of bloodied coughs. “‘M…” he starts, pausing to take a breath. “‘M glad you… glad yer alright.”

Both men’s breaths are shaky, freezing into thin sheets of crystals in the early morning air as they catch their breaths. “Me too, English,” Sean murmurs after a moment.

He momentarily diverts his gaze from his friend to the path he climbed to get to the top of this mountain. “You… you think you can…” he starts, but trails off before finishing the sentence. Even he wasn’t stupid enough to think that the two of them could climb back down. Not like this.

Arthur once again lets out a pained laugh and uses what little energy he can muster to shake his head. He doesn’t speak.

“Me too, English,” Sean says after a moment’s contemplation. With bloodied hands, he reaches to brace himself as he lays on the ground beside his dying friend. He vaguely thinks he hears footsteps behind him, but pays it no mind. On his back, he watches the sky as it slowly begins to change with the rising sun.

This was it. This was where he would finally say goodbye.

And it was worth it.

His eyes open in a flash. The room is white, blindingly so, and there is a loud ringing in his ears that is only drowned out by the screaming pain in his head.

He groans and tries to reach up to his head, to massage this pain away, only to find it again wrapped tightly in bandages. The sound of loud snores from nearby reaches his ears, grating on his already sensitive senses.

Slowly, carefully, he turns his head to look in the direction of the sound. There, covered in bandages and lying on the bed next to his, was Arthur Morgan, sound asleep and sawing enough logs to build a cabin.

Sean feels a smile come to his lips as he glances around the room, just in time to spot the door creek open to reveal a small, brown-haired boy. Blue eyes light up when the boy sees that he’s awake, before he turns and calls down a hallway.

“Ma! Pa! Uncle Sean’s awake!”

#rdr2 #sean macguire #arthur morgan #micah bell #CHAPTER 4 SPOILERS #CHAPTER 6 SPOILERS #rdr2 fanfic

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sometimesitrytowritethings · 3 years ago

Text

Outlaw: Part 5

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: Angst, Swearing, Canon-typical violence

Summary: All you wanted was to be left alone, to forget Arthur Morgan existed entirely. But, damn it, fate still had other plans in mind.

Notes: Increasing the suspense by posting 3 months later...

-----

The tent he had given you was old and slightly tattered, like much of the camp’s possessions, but it did its job. With the help of Arthur, you got the small shelter propped up right next to Abigail and Jack’s lean-to, rolled out a small bedroll and covered it with the couple of threadbare blankets and pillows that the others could spare. It wasn’t much, but if you slept in your coats, you would be perfectly comfortable during the chilly nights.

By the time the day had passed and the sun was hanging low in the sky, you found yourself seated at a table, playing dominoes alongside Abigail and the two boys. Of course, playing was not entirely accurate. What had started as a quiet game to calm them down had quickly turned into building towers, domino snakes, or pretty much anything other than actually playing dominoes.

Their current tower was five pieces high, an impressive feat for two small children, when suddenly, it came tumbling to the ground with a loud clatter. The boys fell to their sides in shrieks of childlike laughter. It was a loud, joyful sound - something that would have normally made you smile, but you couldn’t summon the energy for it. After everything that had happened in the last day and a half, you found that you could only stare angrily off into the nearby woods and pray that this was all a dream.

That, maybe, if you pinched yourself hard enough, you would wake up, warm in your bed, and this nightmare would be forgotten by breakfast.

“Alright, alright you two,” came Abigail’s voice from across the table as she smiled down at the two boys. “I think that’s ‘bout enough for tonight. 'S time to be gettin’ to bed.” The boys both groaned dramatically, but made no further arguments as she led them over to the small tents. Leaving you, once again, alone.

You heaved a sigh and glanced around, a deep fury still sitting low in your stomach. You shouldn’t be here. This shouldn’t be real.

You should be at home with your son and Ms. Chadwick, cooking dinner and getting ready for bed in a nice, heated room. You should be safe and warm, and nowhere near this group of criminals.

This was all their fault. His fault.

The furious anger and frustration that you had held in since you had returned was bubbling up, threatening to boil over now that your son was preoccupied across the camp. You could feel the tears well up in your eyes and felt bile rise in your throat again.

Maybe you did understand Dutch’s seemingly unwavering lust for revenge. If you had been braver… or maybe if you had been less able to control your emotions, maybe you would have done something. Maybe you would have let the anger searing your insides come exploding out of you, shrapnel flying, injuring everyone in your path.

Instead, your anger remained silent; simmering below the surface and leaking down your cheeks in the darkening night.

“Mama?” came a quiet call from across the camp. Ben. “Mama, I’m cold.”

You took a deep breath of the cool night air, and looked in the direction of your new home. Ben was sat in your meager tent, covered in the old quilt that you had managed to bring with you. Abigail and Jack laid in the lean-to next to him, used to the chill of the night air and already fast asleep.

Wiping the tears from your eyes, you forced a small smile to your lips. “Coming, sweetheart,” you called, voice cracking only slightly, before making your way to him.

He was shivering slightly when you reached the tent. Kissing his forehead, you found that to be cold as well. The poor boy. This was all so new, so foreign to him. Like most of your neighbors in Valentine, you had never been particularly well-off, but you had tried your best to ensure that Ben always had a roof over his head and a warm bed.

And, by god, you would keep trying. Even if a warm bed was lacking for the moment. Even if you needed to scrape and scrounge and do without. You would find somewhere new. You would begin again, and give your son the life he deserved.

But for now, you just needed to survive.

You cuddled up to the shivering boy, pulling an additional tattered blanket over the two of you and pulling him close. This would do for tonight.

It would have to.

The night passed slower than you would have liked. Unable to sleep without visions of your burning home haunting your dreams, you found yourself gazing into the night sky, watching the moon make its way slowly across the horizon.

You tried to focus on the sounds around the camp, the snores from the dozens of people as they slept soundly, hoping to lull yourself into at least a light sleep. But each time, you found yourself waking, sweat-soaked and teary eyed, with your arms wrapped tightly around your son.

Ben. He was here, he was safe. That was all that mattered. Even if you were plagued with visions of your burning home for the rest of your life, at least your son was sleeping soundly at your side.

By the time the sun began to peek over the horizon, painting the surrounding forest deep shades of blues and purples, you had given up on getting any sleep at all. Maybe you could wear yourself out during the day and fall into a dreamless sleep in the evening.

With a heavy sigh, you sat up in your small tent and laid your small blanket over Ben, tucking him in gently. You pulled on your shoes, noting that it may be worthwhile to invest in some sturdy boots, and made your way to the nearby campfire.

Very few people were awake at this hour, which suited you just fine, but those that were were gathered around the percolator, ready for another steaming cup of coffee.

Charles, dressed in a heavy gray shirt, nodded at you in a bleary-eyed 'good morning' as you took your place next to him. You picked an empty cup up from near the fire as you were greeted by Abigail and Mrs. Adler, and filled it with as much coffee as you could. Hopefully they had some more lying around somewhere - god knows you would need it today.

The others filtered off slowly, leaving you standing with Abigail in the crisp morning air.

“You doin’ alright?” came her voice from next to you. You didn’t look up from your coffee, but nodded to indicate that you had heard her. Birds chirped, the wind wafted lightly through the trees, and Abigail remained silent next to you, sipping her coffee. It was a comforting almost-silence, like she understood what was going through your mind even if you hadn’t said a word. Even if she didn’t know any of the details.

The coffee slowly disappeared from your mug, until you found yourself staring at a few small grounds. You’ve heard that some soothsayers can read tea leaves, can coffee do the same thing? Could this stupid mug give you some hint about how this damn mess would turn out? How things might possibly right themselves?

The feeling of warm hands on yours startled you from your thoughts, as Abigail gingerly took the cup from you. She knelt by the fire to pour you another fresh cup, before standing to face you. Her voice was quiet, sympathetic, when she next spoke. “I ain’t sure what happened, but just know you’re always welcome here. No matter how horrible Dutch acts.”

You would have scoffed if you had any energy to move. Instead, you stood, silently listening to her as she continued.

“He was like that with me too at first, y’know,” she told you, jerking her head to the side. You nodded and followed her to the edge of camp. “Preaches all ‘bout helpin’ others, but couldn’ be bothered to help a kid in a bad place. Took Hosea ‘n’ John ‘n’ Arthur convincin’ him to eventually let me in.”

“Really?” you croaked, your vocal chords not entirely ready to cooperate so early in the morning. Clearing your throat, you looked across the sprawling land in front of you. “I’d assumed you’ve been here forever.”

Abigail smiled wistfully, sipping her steaming coffee. “Well, I have now,” she explained. “Joined when I was sixteen ‘n’ had nowhere else to go. ‘m a decent pickpocket, so I was able to prove myself to ‘em real quick. ‘N’ then things happened… Jack happened… ‘n’ I can’t take the boy away from his pa – even if he is a no-good idiot.”

This all came as a bit of a shock to you. In your mind, everyone in this group had chosen this life - preferred it, even. But, it seemed like even Abigail was trapped here, that she would have taken any way out if it weren’t for Jack… and his father. “If you don’t mind me asking…”

“John,” she said shortly, cutting you off before you could finish your question. “He don’t even acknowledge the boy, but he’s his. Just look at ‘im and you can tell.”

You glance back to the two shabby tents where your boys are sound asleep. You are unable to see them from here, but can picture it perfectly in your mind; two tiny boys, the spitting image of their fathers, curled up under blankets in neighboring tents. For the first time that morning, a small smile made its way to your lips. “That’s a real shame,” you told Abigail, suddenly feeling less alone. “Jack’s a wonderful boy. His Pa doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

Abigail continued staring off into the distance, sipping her coffee. “Damn right he don't,” she said, before nodding toward the horizon. “Look. The sunrise looks awful pretty from here. It’s the perfect time of day, if ya ask me.”

You nodded, watching as the sky was slowly painted with shades of red and yellow. It really was beautiful out here. And for a second, you considered that, maybe, just maybe, you could get used to this.

The two of you stayed, gazing at the horizon through the steam of your coffee as the camp awoke behind you, until the sun had fully risen above the horizon. There was a quiet bustle from behind you as people left their tents, brushed off the morning dew, and prepared for the day.

“He’s a good man, you know,” came Abigail’s voice after a while, quiet and pensive.

You looked back at the camp, and then to her. “John?”

She chuckled darkly before turning from the cliffside and back toward camp. “Sometimes,” she said, still hushed. “But no, I mean Arthur. He’s a good man. Took real good care of me ‘n’ Jack when John ran off for a while.”

That took you by surprise. You felt the peace of the morning break, just from Abigail's quiet words.

And you had to admit… she was right. You knew Arthur was a decent man, you had seen him be one. The way he had treated your son, the way he had treated you, only a good man could act that way. But he was a thief… and a liar, and an outlaw. But he had hurt Thomas. And, damn it, he had hurt you. No matter how well he had treated you beforehand, and how good his intentions were, he had broken your heart.

“Everyone here does some shady stuff, but they ain’t bad people,” Abigail continued, walking toward you and taking your arm. “Least of all Arthur.”

The day passed by quickly, in an exhausted haze. The rest of the group moved around as usual, washing laundry, cooking, drinking, but you found yourself sticking to the edge of camp, near Mrs. Adler. Luckily, the boys had no problems entertaining each other, and you were left to mull over your conversation with Abigail in peace.

Her words echoed in your head. Everyone here does bad things, but they ain’t bad people. How could that possibly be true? It conflicted with everything you knew, everything you had understood.

How could someone heartlessly steal from a dying man, only to turn around and take care of a child that he had next to no responsibility for? How could someone lie, cheat, and steal from one person, only to help another?

It reminded you of the stories of Robin Hood that your parents had read to you as a child. A thief who only did so to make sure other people could survive. A good man, but still a criminal.

But that was only supposed to be a story. Just a cautionary tale about the harms of greed and kings. It wasn’t real life.

Not to mention that Arthur was certainly no Robin Hood.

He had beaten a good man, a dying man, half to death over almost nothing. He would have left the Downeses to starve if you hadn’t intervened. But why?

And then he had to go and stand up for you in front of Dutch, risking who knows what to save someone who wanted nothing to do with him anymore.

Damn it, it was all so complicated.

You huffed, wrapping your arms around yourself and gazed into the horizon. Your breath crystallised in front of you, as the springtime sun set in the distance. It truly was beautiful out here, you supposed. Under normal circumstances, you would be happy to spend a day in the shaded clearing at Horseshoe Overlook. Under normal circumstances, you would have been thrilled to watch Ben catching fireflies with Jack, to hear his shrieks of joyous laughter.

But these were far from normal circumstances.

You heaved another sigh, only then noticing the crunch of grass behind you and the smell of stew wafting in your direction. Turning, you saw him.

Arthur Morgan, his imposing form magnificent in the light of the setting sun. He held a steaming bowl of stew in each hand, and an uncomfortable smile on his face.

“Here,” he said, clearing his throat and handing a bowl to you. “Ain’t seen you eat anythin’ today…”

You look up to him from your seat on a fallen log, unsure of what to say. After an entire day of thinking about the man, now that he was next to you, you found yourself at a loss.

He gently pushed the bowl into your hands and cleared his throat. He is leaning over your shoulder, you can feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek. You should say something. Anything.

But you can’t.

“Alright…” he begins, breaking the tense silence and pulling away from you. “Well… I’ll see you around then.”

Your mind is waging a war with itself. You should thank him, at the very least. You should be a damn adult and talk to him. But, god damn it, it was all just so complicated! He was beginning to turn and walk away when you finally mustered the energy to speak, “… Arthur, wait.”

His back was already turned, but he stopped. He didn’t look at you, but he did speak. “‘s fine. You got every right to be mad at me.”

He was right, you absolutely did. But good god you didn’t want to be angry with him anymore. If you had learned anything in the past few days, it was that none of this was black and white. You could be furious with someone and still care deeply about them. You could be a liar and a thief but somehow still a good person. You could be somewhere you never wanted to end up, and still be content. “I am still mad at you,” you started, setting the bowl of stew on the log and standing. Hesitantly, you reached out to touch his shoulder.

He flinched, but didn’t move away.

Taking his silence as a sign to continue, you moved in front of him, hand trailing across his suspenders to the collar of his shirt. “I’m furious with you, actually,” you continued as you moved, until, finally, you looked into his eyes.

He looked back at you - exhausted, sad, sorry - and said nothing. “You beat a dying man to within an inch of his life in front of my eyes,” you continued, moving your hand to cup his stubbled cheek. God, you missed this. Missed him. “For nothing, Arthur. I’m furious with you for that.” You felt your breath begin to tremble as you looked into his eyes.

“Then-” he began, only to be immediately cut off.

“But what you did yesterday,” you said, reaching up with your other hand to make sure he was looking directly at you as you spoke. To make sure he understood the gravity of what you were saying, and how eternally grateful you really were. “You may just have saved my life talking to Dutch back there. And I… I appreciate it.” You took a breath and paused. Without thinking, you felt time slow as you moved forward and gave him a small peck on the cheek. “Thank you, Arthur.”

Not quite forgiveness. Not quite a grudge. Something had changed in that moment, and you both could feel it from deep within.

A corner of his lips turned up in a half-smile as he looked down at you. “I hope I never have to do it again.”

#rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #f!reader #arthur morgan x f!reader

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sometimesitrytowritethings · 3 years ago

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It’s that time again, Outlaws!

(Banner by @southernlynxx)

The next rounds of Red Dead Rodeo will take place on:

Saturday, September 4 at 15:00 UTC

(See in your time zone)

Check out this post for more information!

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sometimesitrytowritethings · 3 years ago

Text

Outlaw: Part 4

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: Angst, Swearing, Canon-typical violence, Very mild body horror

Summary: All you wanted was to be left alone, to forget Arthur Morgan existed entirely. But, damn it, fate still had other plans in mind.

Notes: Whew, this took a while, sorry guys! I've got a new job now, so hopefully things will calm down and I will feel more motivated soon. Here's hoping!

-----

The ride back was almost completely silent. If it weren’t for the crunch of the wheels on the ground, the clip-clop clip-clop of the horseshooves, and the enthusiastic chatter from the three men trailing you, it would have been dead quiet.

Luckily, you had all of these things to drown out the angry ringing in your ears as you sat next to Arthur on a worn-down wagon, wringing your hands together anxiously. You hoped all of this would be over soon; that you would get back to the house, not a word spoken between the two of you, find the men that Dutch was looking for, and all of it would be done within an hour.

If only.

Your gaze was directed pointedly away from Arthur, but you still heard him clearing his throat before he began to speak. “Look, I-”

You would not give him the opportunity. “Don’t you dare speak to me, Arthur Morgan,” you spat, not daring to look him in the eye. “This is your fault. I’m in this because of you,” continuing, you felt the lump in your throat only grow bigger. You wanted to cry; from worry, from anger, from frustration. You had trusted him, had put yourself on a limb for him, had fallen for him, and he had lied. And it was no little white lie either. He had omitted something so fundamentally important about his life that it had almost gotten you killed - could have gotten your son killed.

And despite that, regardless of your anger at the man sitting next to you, you knew that if he were to start talking, start explaining himself, you would cave. The night before had been proof enough. The moment your anger had started to subside, you had found yourself falling into a deep pit of self loathing. This man had left you, told you that you couldn’t decide what you wanted for yourself. You had seen him beat a good man half to death over a pittance. But immediately upon lying on his cot, surrounded by his memories, you felt yourself softening. You felt yourself growing willing to forgive him.

And, damnit, you didn’t want to forgive him.

“Comeon,” he groaned, following the plea with your name. You hated how much you loved hearing your name roll from his lips. “You know I ain’tgot-”

“You ain’t got nothing to do with this?” you hissed,your mocking tone hushed so the men behind you wouldn’t hear. You kept your face turned forwards, hoping that he wasn’t able to see the tears threatening to spill. “You caused this, Arthur Morgan! They came after me because they had seen me with you - theysaid as much last night.” Unable to hold back the tears any longer, you reached up to wipe them on the end of your sleeve. Now that the dam was broken, the words flew from your lips without any regard for him. “And you knew. The entire goddamn time we were together, you knew being seen with you wouldn’t be safe for me. For my son. But you did it anyway, and then you just left! Saying it was too dangerous for us to be together, but the damage had been done. Your excuse was utter bullshit, Arthur, and not only did you break my heart, but you left me, you left Ben, without protection from the people who are after you. So, yes, Arthur, I would say you do actually have a hell of a lot to do with this.”

He was silent, focusing instead on the reins in front of him.

Maybe you had gone too far?

No, getting all of that off your chest lifted a strange weight off of you. Telling him the thoughts that had been tormenting you since he had left was a strange relief. Because, even though you had also contributed to this, he had been the one who had lied. He hadn’t told you the truth from the beginning, which you couldn’t blame him for, but if he had? Well, you sure as hell would not have gotten into a relationship with a wanted criminal.

No matter how much you enjoyed your conversations and regardless of how your stomach screwed into knots when he was around.

If you had known the truth, if he had been honest about who he was, you surely would have avoided him for your and your son’s safety... surely, you would have.

That same awkward, angry silence enveloped the two of you; the horse hooves and wagon wheels the only sound to be heard. Dutch and the other men had trailed further behind and were no longer within earshot.

You cleared your throat and hugged your arms tightly around yourself. Only a few more minutes until you reached your house, then the men could patrol and hopefully leave as soon as possible. Maybe the man, this enemy of theirs, would already be there, lying in wait. They could shoot him down and be on their merry way - back to robbing sick men for all they were worth.

The journey from what you realised was Horseshoe Overlook to your house was not long, perhaps an hour of travel time in total, and it wasn’t until you were about 15 minutes away that you noticed it.

The smell.

When the familiar scent of charred wood first reached your nostrils, you assumed someone must have made a camp nearby.

But then it grew stronger.

The scent of burning grew heavier as you made your way towards town.

And even stronger once you passed the main street.

And by the time you reached home, you could see the source of the smoke. The boarding house, once bright and welcoming, was now a charred black skeleton of a building. Curls of smoke rose to the sky from the glowing embers of the extinguished fire. From what used to be the porch, you could spot what looked like a charred body.

Ms. Chadwick.

Before Arthur could stop you, you leapt from the wagon and ran as close to the building as you could bear. What could have only been ferocious flames had likely died down long ago, but the heat was still there, searing your eyes with every step you took.

After only a few meters, you dropped to your knees in anguish.

Your home was gone.

The home where you had mourned your husband. The house where your son took his first steps. Where he had learned to read. And in front of it lay one of the kindest women you knew, who had willingly taken in a single mother for a pittance, her body charred but still recognisable.

Breaths came in short bursts between desperate sobs as you bent forward to steady yourself. Your hands grasped at the grass beneath you, crushing it between your fingers before you fell to your side and curled in on yourself. For the second time in less than a day, you were frozen.

You had no idea what to do.

So, you cried. You lay on the ground, still warm from the nearby fire, and sobbed. Your knees pulled to your chest, you tried to comfort yourself.

Still, the sobs wouldn’t stop and the tears kept coming.

Your friend. Your home. Lost.

And to think that you should have been there. Ben should have been there. You should have died last night, and yet…

Yet you were here, laying on the ground and facing yet another uphill climb out of a sudden pit of despair into which you had just been pushed.

Your guttural sobs were dying down as your throat began to ache. Tears dried up, leaving your eyes red and swollen. Slowly, you came back to your senses.

Only now were you able to acknowledge the strong arms that had wrapped themselves around you. You lay, curled half in the lap of the man you had been so determined to hate. Slowly, you blink and look blearily at the ruins of your home.

Four men stood in front of it, only slightly closer than you. You recognized them from the camp earlier, but couldn’t place their names any more. They were speaking among themselves and… to you?

No, to the man holding you.

Arthur.

“It’s alright,” he soothes, his voice low and soft. You’ve heard this voice before. “It’ll all be alright. You’re alright, girl…” You can feel his strong arms rocking your body, fingers threading through your hair as he helped bring you back to reality.

The three other men make their way over to the two of you, still talking. You jump slightly as Arthur barks something back at Dutch before turning back to you. “You think you can sit up?” he asks, voice still calm, still soft.

Slowly, you nod, accepting his help as you sit up on the warm ground, facing away from the ruins of your home. The smell of smoke still fills your nostrils, encases your lungs, and brings you back to reality. The need to scream is still there. The desire to once again fall to the ground and weep for the memories, for the safety, that you had suddenly lost, but you know you need to pull yourself together.

You need to stay strong, for Ben’s sake. Getting back to camp and figuring out where to go from here was your new priority. It was likely that you would need to stay at the camp for a while, until you could find somewhere new, but that was a sacrifice you would simply need to make. As long as those men were still around, as long as they were still hunting Arthur and Dutch, you and your son were no longer safe in Valentine.

You could hear Dutch’s voice over the dim ringing in your ears, “Well, boys. Looks like we lost them, let’s head back ‘fore anyone thinks to blame us for this mess.” He was walking decidedly back to his horse, followed closely by Javier and Bill. Charles stood next to Arthur, who was knelt by your side, his eyes searching you for any signs of another collapse. “Arthur, Charles, let’s head out. We’ll send her son back this evening.”

We’ll send her son back this evening.

We’ll send her son back.

He fully intended to leave you here. Alone. With nothing but the clothes on your back and the burning wreckage of your home.

“Excuse me?” you managed after a moment, your voice hoarse and weak. You stood, shaky on your feet, with Arthur following closely behind you. “You- you can’t just leave me here.” Your stammer was far less demanding than you had intended, and didn’t seem to phaseDutch in the slightest.

“Dutch,” you heard Arthur call from behind you, his hand on your back to steady you as you walked forward. “Com'on, we can’t just leave her.”

Both of your pleas fell on deaf ears. Dutch’s boots crunched on the grass with each step, drawing closer to his white horse. For a second, you could have laughed at the irony. Dutch van der Linde was no shining knight on a white horse.

As he was drawing further away from you, you mustered enough strength, enough courage to dash to him and take his forearm in a vice grip. “No!” you demanded, pulling on his arm to convince him to face you. More likely from shock than from your actual strength, he turned. “You can’t leave me. This… this is as much your fault as it is mine. You’ve got some godforsaken blood feud that I didn’t even know about and would have avoided entirely if I hadn’t…” a moment’s pause allowed you to glance back at Arthur, whose face had fallen. Or maybe he had been that way this entire time. “...if I hadn’t spent time with Arthur. You can notjust leave me here.”

There was silence. Complete and utter silence, for just a moment, as everyone processed what you were saying.

And then…

“She’s right, Dutch,” came Arthur’s voice from behind you. Immediately, a wave of relief rushed over you. At the very least, Arthur was on your side.

“Not you too, son,” Dutch grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose and surveying the two of you. “You’re starting to sound like Hosea.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing, Dutch,” he countered, making it obvious that he would be ignoring any further protests by leading you over to the wagon. As he helped you up, the wood creaking under your feet, he turned to the older man. “We ain’tleaving her here. Not like this.”

You could have cried. You could have kissed him. You could have gotten down and slapped Dutch van der Linde across the face. So many emotions raged through you at that moment, and you had the energy for none of them. Instead, you sat in the wagon, waiting for everyone to mount their horses, and stared blankly at the ruins of your former home.

What would you tell your son?

Lucky for you, by the time the group had arrived back at camp, Ben was still fully immersed in playing with Jack. Instead of chasing around the poor flock of chickens, they had changed their tune and were now seated next to two women, Tilly and Mary-Beth you believed, singing a song about rabbits.

They were so distracted, in fact, that even the sound of the wagon clambering into camp did not break their focus. Under any other circumstances, it would have been adorable. It was so rare to see Ben with children his age, and seeing the two of them get on so well, so quickly, should have made you happy.

But it did nothing to clear the storm clouds that had just gathered over your head. The current circumstances certainly put a damper on your mood, and you found yourself sullenly climbing from the wagon and making your way over to the small group without a word to your travel companions.

By the time you reached your son, a lump had lodged itself firmly in your throat. Torn between wanting to tell him the truth, and wanting to keep him safe and happy, you found yourself at a loss for words. How could you tell him what happened without causing him too much pain?

We will be staying with Jack for a while, because our house was burnt down by bad men. No, that would surely send him into a fit of tears, which you did not have the energy to mediate at the moment.

It’s not safe to go back home anymore, so we will stay with our friends here. This one would inevitably lead to too many questions that you simply did not know how to answer.

Our house is gone, but we are safe. Would that work? And were you even safe?

There was no telling what Dutch would do, and he didn’t seem completely thrilled at the prospect of bringing you back to camp. Not to mention, a life on the road didn’t exactly seem safe to begin with.

No. You wouldn’t tell him. Not now.

Everything was so new out here, hopefully that would keep him distracted until you found safety… if you found safety.

By the time you had finished mulling everything over, Ben had been alerted to your arrival and scrambled to his feet to greet you. “Mama!” he called, wrapping his tiny arms around you and looking up at you with an enthusiastic grin. “Did you get everything?”

Shit. You had said you would bring things from home, but had come back empty handed. Maybe telling him the truth was the only way to go.

You opened your mouth to speak, and were immediately interrupted by Arthur, who had walked up behind you. “We got some blankets and pillows and a nice tent for the two o’ you,” he said, his arms laden with unfamiliar fabric. “Got some in town, ‘n’ we picked up some candy for you boahs too.” He looked from Ben to you, and nodded his head toward the other side of camp. “We can get you set up by Abigail. Figured you boahs would want to sleep next to each other and bother your mamas all night.”

In that moment, you once again felt like you could have kissed him. Your hero, once again flying in to save the day. And, once again, you felt disgusted with yourself for the thought. How many times would you need to remind yourself that you hated him? How many times would he come to your rescue, and chip away at the wall that you had managed to build in the past few months?

You would need to be resolute. You would need to stay with the camp as little as possible, socialise as little as possible, and find a place of your own as soon as possible. But while you were there, for your own sake and for Ben’s, you must not forgive Arthur Morgan.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x f!reader #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #f!reader

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sometimesitrytowritethings · 3 years ago

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hi!! do you know when the next chapter of outlaw will be out? it’s so good!!

Hi! I’m so glad you are enjoying it and I am so sorry for the delay! I’ve been swamped with work so haven’t had a chance (or energy) to get it to the quality I want, but i hope to have it out soon! 💕

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sometimesitrytowritethings · 3 years ago

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A great big special thank you to @peachy-mags for the full version of the fantastic companion artwork for this piece! (https://peachy-mags.tumblr.com/post/654049235542622208/)

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader

Word count: 13.2k

Warnings: Smut, Swearing, Canon-typical violence

Summary: After years of service to Angelo Bronte, who would have thought that the arrival of little Jack Marston could change your life forever?

Notes: My submission for @rdrbigbang! Be sure to check out the AMAZING companion art for this fic from @peachy-mags!

-----

Another beautiful morning in Saint Denis. You breathed in deeply, reveling in the calm peace that so rarely enveloped the town. There was a slight nip in the air that you knew would fade away as the morning drew on, the sun rising and casting everything in a pale-yellow light, before the city itself awakened. It was your favorite time of day.

A cup of coffee steamed in your hands as you slowly made your way through the gardens at Angelo Bronte’s mansion. One of the perks of being a live-in servant, you supposed, was unfettered access to the (admittedly slightly ostentatious) statue garden out back - given that Signor Bronte himself wasn’t occupying the space. After a few minutes of slow, calm pacing, you found yourself standing in front of a marble statue of some Roman goddess, Aphrodite?, and taking a sip of your coffee.

It was hot and bitter, the perfect juxtaposition to the cool morning that you would allow yourself to enjoy for a few moments longer. Soon, you would need to make your way inside and ready the table for breakfast, but for now you could enjoy this moment. This peace.

Unfortunately, that peace was almost immediately broken by the sound of terrified cries coming from inside the house. It was not all that uncommon to hear screams and sobs from inside the building, due to the scrupulous nature of your employer, but these sounded different. Almost childlike.

Curious, you made your way back indoors, trying your best to steady your pace so as not to draw unwanted attention. Setting the coffee cup in the kitchen next to the large washbasin, you nodded to the cook, Giovanni, before opening the door to the servant’s stairwell.

The crying was louder here. Anguished and frightened sobs broken only occasionally by cries for “Mama”.

So it was a child?

Quietly, you crept up the creaky stairs to the hallway, where several of Bronte’s more scrupulous henchmen, Gene, Alfonso and Irvin, were gathered around a door. The crying was even louder now, and most certainly coming from the room where the henchmen were standing guard. Above the desperate sobs, you could just make out the sounds of your employer trying to shush the child, albeit unsuccessfully.

“Now, now, my boy,” he soothed, his accent unmistakable. “There’s no need to be upset, I’m sure your family will come after you soon enough.” The boy continued to cry for his mother in between sobs. Signor Bronte’s tactic wasn’t exactly working.

The men standing guard had spotted you, and closed their ranks tighter. You knew how this went - you were never allowed to see Bronte’s victims. In fact, as far as you were supposed to know, Bronte participated in no underhanded dealings whatsoever. Which was, of course, completely wrong, and you had figured that out long ago. But for the most part, you tried your best to ignore the dealings - for the sake of keeping yourself alive.

But this was a child.

You had to do something.

Carefully, you moved closer to the line of henchmen standing in front of the door. They were larger than you, Signor Bronte had a habit of finding and employing practical giants to act as his henchmen, but they were also silent.

“Signor Bronte?” you called, standing nearly face-to-chest with one of the large men. “Is everything alright? Can I be of service?”

The men in front of you reddened, irritated at your immunity to their intimidation tactics. They stayed silent, however, and maintained their position as a wall of flesh between you and the crying child in the room.

After just a few moments, you heard your name being called with a familiar Italian lilt . “Come in, come in. We could use your help,” he hailed for you over the steady sobs from the room.

The three men at the door reluctantly parted to let you enter the brightly lit room. A fire was burning low in the hearth, likely more of a symbol of comfort than to actually provide any heat, and your boss sat on the side of a large, gaudy bed.

The boss of the largest crime syndicate in San Denis was a feared man, but if you met him in the street, you would never know. He was small, with a prominent nose and dark eyes that never overlooked anything. At home, his dark was hair slicked back under a floral headband, and his red housecoat opened in the front to reveal an unbuttoned white collared shirt. To anyone who didn’t know him, he could have passed as any rich, european immigrant.

But you knew better. In the middle of the luxurious home, beneath the extravagance of his clothing, sat a cunning, intelligent man who had clawed his way up from hell itself. He was cutthroat, manipulative, and would not hesitate to sell out his closest comrade for a step up the ladder. Knowing this, it didn’t surprise you to see a small boy curled up on the large, gaudy bed, his clothes muddied and his light brown hair in tangles. He couldn’t have been older than four or five, and was screaming adamantly for his mother.

Instinctually, you rushed to the bed and sat next to him, taking the spot that had been occupied by your boss. “Now, my dear,” he said as he stood, clearing his throat and adjusting his housecoat, “this young man is Jack, and he will be staying with us for a while.” You looked sympathetically at the boy, still sobbing and curled up in front of you, before giving your boss a solemn nod.

You hated this; seeing the boy in such a familiar state. A state that you, yourself, had been in for years upon your arrival in San Denis. Hopefully his parents, unlike yours, could pay off whatever debt they had soon. “If you could stop his screams, I would appreciate it. He’s giving me a headache,” Signor Bronte continued, reaching up to massage the bridge of his nose with one hand as he headed toward the door. “Get him some breakfast. I’m sure he hasn’t been fed since those hillbillies in Rhodes took him.”

Without another word, he walked from the room and the three henchmen followed closely behind him. As he entered the hallway, you could hear him speaking to them in Italian, “Let’s hope these bastards come for him soon. I want to have the little shit out of here as soon as possible.”

The door closed behind them, and you were left in the room with the poor, frightened child. You sighed and slowly moved closer to the curled up figure on the bed. Making sure you were as gentle as possible, you reached out to place a hand on his tiny shoulder. “Jack?...” you said his name, low and calm, as if you were trying to tame a spooked horse. He curled even further into himself, but you noticed his sobs had started to die down to exhausted whimpers. “Jack?” you tried again, pulling your hand back to yourself and placing it in your lap. Calmly, you gave him your name before continuing, “I’m very sorry about all of this, Jack. I know it’s very scary…. I-”

What could you tell him? That you had been in the same situation when you were just a few years older? That your parents had never been able to come back for you? That you had spent the majority of your life in service to Angelo Bronte, notorious mafioso, in order to pay a massive debt that had been racked up by your father when you were eight?

No. He didn’t need to know those things. He didn’t need to know the likely reality of his situation.

It was rare that Signor Bronte dealt in child kidnappings, but when he did? The poor kids were lucky if their parents were able to retrieve them.

“I’m sure your ma and pa will show up for you soon,” you soothed, hoping it was the truth.

The poor boy, whose sobs had now turned into quiet sniffles, stayed curled up with his back to you, unmoving. You reached out a hand gently, brushing his dirty hair away from his forehead, only for him to flinch from your touch. You couldn’t blame him.

“Alright, Jack,” you said quietly, standing from the bed. A nearby armchair held a throw blanket that you spread gently over him. “Why don’t you get some rest, I’ll bring you some water and some soup in a bit, I’m sure you’re starving.” The floor creaked beneath your feet as you made your way to the door. He didn’t move. He didn’t look up at you. He just stayed on the bed, a shaking, sniffling bundle. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Sighing, you stepped out of the room and into the hallway, making sure to lock the door behind you. You didn’t think he would run away, he seemed far too exhausted and overwhelmed for that, but you have seen desperate people do crazier things. The least you could do was make sure he wasn’t accidentally hurt trying to make his way past Gene, Alfonso and Irvin trying to escape.

You made your way quickly back to the servants stairwell and down to the kitchen, where Giovanni was waiting for you with bated breath. A joyous, loving man, an immigrant from Italy alongside Angelo Bronte several decades ago, Giovanni was one of your closest friends - possibly the next thing to family that you had had since coming here. Over the years, he had taught you as much as he could about Italian cuisine, all the while boasting about the restaurant that he would surely open one day.

At first, you had scoffed. Hardly anyone in Angelo Bronte’s service managed to leave and start their own life. And, with as much as Signor Bronte boasted about Giovanni’s food, it wasn’t likely that he would be let out of his repayment contract that easily.

Hardly anyone actively sought out Angelo Bronte as an employer. In fact, you suspected that the only actual well-paid employees were the contract killers he sometimes took out to keep his hands clean - but again, you weren’t supposed to know that. The rest of you were given room and board and a pittance of a salary, in exchange for paying off whatever debt was owed to Signor Bronte. For you, it was your father’s sizable gambling debts. For Giovanni, it was the cost of keeping his nieces and nephews alive after their father, his brother, had suddenly passed. Bail, loans, gambling - every one of his employees had a past, and every single one of them owed their future to Angelo Bronte.

“And, my dear, what is the news?” he asked, turning from the freshly baked bread that he had just taken out of the oven to face you.

You gave him a somber smile and picked up a slice of tomato from the cutting board in the center of the kitchen island. “A boy,” you explained, leaning against the island and taking a bite of the vegetable. You glanced over at the washbasin and saw your coffee cup had been cleaned. Giovanni was a saint. “Maybe four or five? Small, either way. I…” you trailed off, but the both of you knew what was going through your mind. You felt bad for him, you didn’t think he deserved this.

Giovanni nodded, and turned to the stove. “Well, my dear, let’s give the boy a warm welcome, shall we?” he responded before pulling a large pot from the back of the stove and looking inside. “We have some leftover minestrone from yesterday, why don’t you warm some up for him while I finish Signor Bronte’s breakfast? There’s some stale bread in the pantry you can add to it. I’ll call in Anne to set the table,” he handed you a wooden spoon and was out the kitchen door, where you heard him calling for the older woman.

Your smile was significantly less downtrodden after speaking to the man, but you still could feel anxious, worried butterflies in your stomach as you collected a bowl, spoon and glass. After a quick glance around the room to make sure no one was watching, you also slipped a small chocolate bar into your apron pocket, hoping it would help cheer the boy up, even a little. Within just a few minutes, you were headed back up the creaky stairs to the room where Jack was housed, hot soup and cool water in hand, and armed with a secret chocolate bar.

Quietly, you opened the door, balancing the soup and a glass of water with your left arm as you entered. The room was silent now, except for the low breathing of the boy on the bed. If it weren’t for his red-puffy eyes and the chapped rings around his nostrils, he would have seemed peaceful. Like nothing was wrong at all.

You stood for a moment, looking at the poor boy. Should you wake him? He was bound to be starving, but you were sure he was exhausted as well. You hesitated, but decided against it. You could leave the soup and water on the bedside table and check on him throughout the day - he deserved his rest.

Slowly, quietly, you crept across the room to the side of the bed and set the soup and water down, followed by the chocolate bar. You glanced quickly at him, relieved he didn’t wake, before making your way back to the door.

Just as you were about to leave and go about your duties for the morning, you heard a small cough and a hoarse, timid voice from the bed. “Wait…” he said. You turned to see the boy propped up on his arms, looking at you with puffy, shining eyes. “Please don’t leave me.”

Looking at him made you want to cry. How could anyone hurt someone so small, so fragile, so helpless? How could someone be so cruel as to take him away from his family and thrust him into this god awful world?

He was already so exhausted, so frightened, so sad, you couldn’t leave him to sort his feelings out on his own. You could convince Anna and Giovanni to take your duties for the day. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you nodded at him and moved back toward the bed to sit with him. “I won’t.”

---

Slowly, Jack began to settle in. Although he was still obviously upset, the boy proved to be far more flexible and resilient than you had expected from someone so young. Whether from his natural resilience or from your constant reassurance that his parents must be doing everything in their power to get him back, you weren’t entirely certain. You spent plenty of time with him, making sure he was doing alright, and eventually he chose to sleep on a small cot in the servants quarters, next to your bed.

He was prone to constant chatter during the day, and you soon learned quite a lot about him and his family. He apparently had plenty of aunts and uncles, who all moved together around the country. They had been down near Blackwater for a long time, where Jack had apparently left his favorite storybook, but then something brought them north to a small ghost town “with lots of snow, it was real cold!”. Luckily, they hadn’t been there long before heading south again to “a place by a river with lots and lots of trees” where, notably, his Uncle Arthur had taken him fishing. Most recently, they had moved down to Lemoyne, once again near a river, but this time Jack described it as “really hot and nothing ever dries and it always smells like fish.”

An accurate description if you had ever heard one.

In the meantime, although he wouldn’t talk much to the others, most of them couldn’t help but dote on him. Giovanni had a habit of slipping him sweets throughout the day. Anna and the other maids would occasionally bring him books or toys that they had found around town - he was amassing quite a collection. And from Signor Bronte himself, Jack received a brand new outfit made from the finest cotton. You suspected it was most likely to keep the worn rags out of the man’s sight than to actually please Jack.

But, despite the gifts and the treats from the others, Jack clung to you. On laundry days, he would help sort and fold. When cooking, he would clean the vegetables without a second thought. During cleaning, he happily carried supplies around after you, handing you what you needed whenever asked. Although you had told him multiple times that he was more than welcome to sit and read his new book, he preferred staying by your side.

Almost as if he was afraid that, if left alone, he would be taken again.

And at night, it always came to a head. In the dark and left with no distractions, you could hear his whimpers from the cot next to yours. You could hear his murmurs and quiet cries for “Mama” as he dreamt. And it hurt. You couldn’t bear to see him so miserable.

After the third or fourth night, you reached down and brushed the hair from his head. “Jack?” you whispered, looking at the small boy with all the affection of a loving mother. “It’s going to be alright, I promise.”

He didn’t wake. Instead, he sleepily lifted his hand to yours, and held it in his until the sun rose.

The first few weeks went by similarly. Working during the day, with Jack at your side, helping you out as much as a child could, and comforting the poor child during the night with reassuring words. Soon, the reassurance and affirmations turned into stories - tales about dragons and castles, about magic and the sea.

About two weeks into his stay, you spent the day preparing for a large feast alongside Giovanni, Anna and with plenty of help from Jack.

“You didn’t finish your story last night,” he said, pounding away at a ball of bread dough with his tiny fists.

“Oh yes I did,” you teased, looking the boy dead in the eye with a grin. “You were just too sleepy and fell asleep before the end.” As you joked, you set down the knife and pushed aside the tomato you had been chopping to poke him lightly in the side.

His joyous laughter lit up his face. “Hey!” he whined in between bouts of giggles. “That tickles!”

“I know, silly,” you returned not relenting your tickle torture. “That’s the point!” You did acquiesce after just a few moments though, not wanting to actually cause him any pain.

“Alright you two, calm down, now,” came Anna’s voice from across the room. She was a lovely, portly older woman, with graying hair and a smile to light up a room. If Giovanni had been your father figure since coming here, she certainly took the place of your mother. “We’ve got plenty to prepare for tonight. Signor Bronte is having the Mayor over to talk about his party.”

You let your giggles die down, and nudged the red-faced child next to you. “Now look what you’ve done, Jackie,” you teased softly, ruffling his hair before going back to chopping vegetables.

“Nuh uh,” he responded, giving the bread dough a thorough punch before looking up at you again with a childish grin. He had lost a tooth recently, which only made it all the more adorable. “Can you tell me the end of the story?” he asked after another moment, turning back to the mound of dough on the table. “It was so good, I wanna hear the end. Pretty please?”

A chuckle escaped your lips. “Alright, alright,” you chided, picking up yet another tomato. It wasn’t a particularly good story, just a thinly veiled version of… well, you didn’t want to dwell on that, but if he wanted to hear it, you would oblige. “Where were we?”

“Hmmm…” he mused, stopping kneading the dough for just a second to recall. “Well, the king and queen had just sent the princess to talk to the mean dragon, and then he caught her in a trap, remember?”

“That’s the beginning of the story, Jack.”

“Well, that’s as far as I remember,” his giggles echoed through the room and you couldn’t help but smile.

“Alright, fine,” you feigned irritation that he definitely could see right through. “Well, the princess had been caught in a trap by the mean dragon, but he didn’t hurt her. He… he just wouldn’t let her go home. He wouldn’t let her see the king and queen again so she could be happy.

“‘Your king and queen need to send a knight to come get you,’ the dragon told the princess. ‘Little girls cannot roam the forest on their own.’

“And so, the princess waited, and waited and waited and waited. She learned to read, and write, and she even learned to speak Dragon, which were talents unheard of for princesses in those days.

“She had lots of friends who came and went, and even though she couldn’t go back to the king and queen, she... she wasn’t so lonely… and she learned to find happiness in the small things, like the smell of coffee in the morning, or turning the page of a brand new book, or even the glow of the sunrise on spring dew.

“After a while, she finally realised that she didn’t need the king and queen to be happy. She could make her own happiness… And she did…” you trailed off at the end, returning your focus once again to the vegetables. The other two adults in the room remained silent. You couldn’t have been more blatantly obvious. “The end.”

Jack was quiet for a moment as well, hands stilled on the dough as he looked at the ceiling in thought. “That wasn’t a very good ending,” he said quietly, looking up at you.

You had been caught.

“The princess should have run away, or she should have asked one of her friends to take her when they were leaving,” he continued, determined.

You chuckled solemnly. “You’re probably right, Jack,” you murmured. “I think she was just… scared. The world was dark and scary for her, and she weren’t a very brave princess, and she was worried about what would happen to the king and queen if she left.”

“But that’s not true,” he interjected, throwing one final punch at the bread dough before Anna came to collect it from him. “She was real brave! She lived with a dragon! And dragons are real scary!” He was handed another mound of dough which he immediately proceeded to punch with all his might. “And maybe some of her friends come back to save her! Maybe she helped lots of people while they were living with the dragon, and then they come back to help her! That would be an even better ending!”

Another chuckle. He was far too adorable and far too naive for this house. “Maybe, Jack,” you responded, plastering a knowing smile to your lips. “That would be a good ending.” Clearing your throat, you wiped your hands on your apron and turned to face the small boy. “Alright now, you. Finish up with that bread and then we can get cleaned up for lunch. I think Giovanni is making us spaghetti.”

---

The hot water splashed out of the bucket, spraying suds across the floor. Jack giggled and picked up a handful, blowing it in your direction.

You couldn’t help but laugh. The kid sure did know how to make even the most boring of chores into a game. Looking around first to make sure no one caught you messing around, you picked up a handful of bubbles and plopped them onto his head. This brought out a shrieking laugh from the boy. He really was settling in. For better or worse, at least he seemed to be happier.

Finally, you told him gently that you needed to finish the laundry, and then the two of you could go outside for a walk. This, somehow, convinced him to calm down, left playing with the bubbles and giggling to himself until he was interrupted by a voice calling your name from the hall.

Signor Bronte.

“Get these men drinks,” you heard, his spoken Italian echoing across the hall.

Immediately, you put the wash down and wiped your hands on your dirtied apron before hustling to the liquor cabinet. “Wait here, Jack. I’ll just bring the whisky out and be right back,” you instructed, quickly gathering six whisky glasses and a serving tray.

This had been your job for years, you could practically do it blindfolded. As one of the youngest servants in the house, Signor Bronte tended to like to have you wait on his more esteemed guests. It was degrading, but it kept you in his good graces. You had seen enough servants come and go to know that complaining about your role would get you nowhere. Or worse.

Quickly, you pulled a decanter from the cabinet, and left the room with the tray full of glasses in your hands. Already in the hallway, you could hear the conversation between the men in the room. “Dutch van der Linde, Arthur Morgan, John Marston,” introduced one of the strangers, his voice confident.

You brushed past Irvin, who was standing guard at the entrance, into extravagant parlour. Upon entering the room, you could immediately see that these were not the typical guests that Signor Bronte would waste his good whisky on, but you hardly had time to look at them individually. They seemed dirty, rough, and completely out of place in the richly-decorated parlour.

“The pleasure is mine, all mine, please,” he said, summoning you forward. You warily step between the chairs to place the tray on the table and pour the glasses, handing them to each man in turn. First, to a tall, thin man with dark hair and a frustrated scowl etched into his face. Next, a muscular man with light brown hair and bright teal eyes, and finally, another dark-haired man, his hair slick with pomade and dressed in clothing that looked like it used to be expensive.

“So, can my friend have his son?” says one of the men - the one who had introduced them all earlier. You nearly froze. Can my friend have his son?

Jack.

It took you just a moment to gather your wits before you turned to your boss, handing him the last glass. He took it with a nod to you and a chuckle, before looking back at the men in front of him. “Of course, of course!” he grinned, taking a sip of the whisky. You immediately got yourself out of the way, standing behind the couch in case you were needed for anything else, as you had been taught. “But… should I be out of pocket over a misunderstanding? Of course I know you would not want that…”

“No,” answered the man, slightly reluctantly. You noted that none of the other men had yet spoken, this must be their leader.

Bronte seemed satisfied with their response, choosing to ignore the reluctance with a jovial laugh. “No, no no. So, how about this? You perform a simple job for me and you get your son back,” he explained, rubbing his hands together like the villain he was.

Finally, one of the other men spoke.“What is it?” the larger of the two groaned, beginning to stand up, as if he knew he would be assigned to this task.

Bronte, of course, made light of the situation, waving his hands through the air as he spoke, “A couple of people have taken to grave robbing in the cemetery.”

“That is a fine place for it, the best,” joked the leader. You cringed, but Signor Bronte seemed to enjoy it.

Your boss burst out laughing, from the gut this time. “I love this guy, don’t you love him?” he laughed, looking at you. You nodded, plastering a smile to your face until he turned back to the other man. “I love you!” He paused for a moment to pour himself another glass of whisky before continuing his explanation. “See they’ve taken not only to desecrating the dead, but they've done so without paying a tribute to the living. Thing is, they see my men, of course, they run a mile. So maybe you two head off, huh?” he said, indicating to the men on the couch before pouring yet another glass of whisky and handing it to the group’s leader. “And you, Mr. Van der Linde? Why don’t you tell me more about my manners?” he finished speaking and held up the glass to the other man, Mr. van der Linde, for a toast as the other two men stood to leave the room. “Salute.”

“Salute,” parroted Mr. van der Linde, clinking his glass with your boss’s. The other two men exited the room, as your boss and Mr. van der Linde continued conversing. Their laughter was real, but something in the room was tense, fake. Two men cut from the same cloth, both trying to one-up the other without making it completely obvious.

You had seen this enough times to know that this would only end badly for at least one of them - if not both.

The hour dragged on, as you stood in the corner, ready to jump into service if need be. Your mind drifted to Jack - now sitting alone in the washroom - and that you would soon be saying goodbye.

It was bittersweet, this feeling that came over you. You wanted him to be happy, to be home with his family, of course, but over the course of the last few weeks, he had wormed his way into your heart. He was the family, the son, that you would never have. And it broke your heart to have to let him go.

But you knew better. You couldn’t keep him here. Not for you. It was better if he were able to go home, to see his mother and his family, to see his dog that he missed so much. That was the life he needed, the life he deserved.

You felt the tears well in your eyes as you stood, waiting for your orders. A little over three hours had passed, and the men were still away. Signor Bronte and Mr. van der Linde were well into their cups, and you were not surprised in the least when your boss stood and unceremoniously sent his guest on his way.

“And the boy?” asked Mr. van der Linde, standing from his position on the couch and reaching out a hand to shake.

Signor Bronte took it, gave it a quick shake and began to stagger out of the room. “Yes, yes,” he slurred, turning to you on his way. “Bring him down, would you?”

“Yes, Signore,” you nodded, looking from your boss to the other man. It was really happening. It was really time to say goodbye.

To say Jack was excited at the news was putting it lightly. He had nearly bounced with joy when you had told him that his Pa was here to pick him up. You had led him down the stairs and out the front door to where Mr. van der Linde was waiting patiently. Jack nearly tackled him to the ground in his excitement.

“Uncle Dutch!” he called, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist.

A loud, barking laugh left the man as he patted Jack’s head. “Well hello there, son,” he said, a smile on his face. “It’s good to see you again. We’ve missed you around camp.”

You smiled, looking at the two of them. This was the right thing to do. But then, Jack did something wholly unexpected. He led Dutch to you, and introduced you.

“She’s been real nice since I got here,” he explained to the older man. “She told me stories and brought me candy, and today she even put bubbles on my head!” his excited giggles echoed across the yard.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Dutch said, looking you up and down before reaching out for your hand, which he then pulled to his lips in a theatrical show of chivalry. “And thank you so much for taking such good care of our boy.”

You plastered another smile to your face and gently pulled your hand away, wary of potentially offending the well-armed man. “Of course,” you responded. “I was happy to-” you were cut off by the well-timed sound of horse hooves on the cobblestones, and a loud, rough voice ringing in your ears.

“Like I said, we’ll see where we’re at once we got Jack,” said one of the men from earlier as their horses came to a halt in front of the gate. They dismounted and were immediately let in by one of the front guards.

Upon their arrival, Dutch seemed to immediately forget your existence, instead striding towards the two men with an exasperated, “Well, you took your time.”

And then there was Jack, nearly bursting with excitement at the sight of the men, he couldn’t wait until they were through the gate before he ran to them with a cry of, “Pa!”

The sight warmed your heart. Jack was quickly picked up and clutched to the chest of the taller, dark-haired man as the other moved past you to hand something to the guards. “I’m so glad to see you!” he said, rubbing the back of Jack’s head and holding him close.

However, Jack, completely oblivious to the nature of the situation, wiggled free of his father’s arms and, instead, grabbed his hand and pulled the man in your direction. “Pa, come here, come here, you have to meet my friend!” he said, voice loud and excited, as he introduced you to his father. “She’s been helping me since I got here. She tells the best stories!”

The man looked down at Jack with a loving smile and then up to you. “That so?” he asked the boy, reaching out to shake your hand. “John Marston.”

You took his and introduced yourself as Jack rambled on, “Yeah! And she taught me how to make bread real good, want to see?”

“Sure, you can show us when we get back to camp,” John acquiesced, still holding tight to the boy’s hand, who then proceeded to drag the two of you over to the one man you did not yet have a name for.

“Uncle Arthur!” he called. The man, having dropped off whatever he had needed to give Signor Bronte, was leaning against a column and smoking. “You have to meet my friend too.”

“Is that right?” he said, smiling at Jack. He pushed himself off the column and snubbed his cigarette on his boot, moving toward the three of you. “Nice to meet you, miss,” for the third time that night, a hand was held out.

You shook it and introduced yourself, “It’s nice to meet you too.”

John, looking both relieved and exhausted, heaved Jack back into his arms. “Thank you for taking care of him, I-”

Immediately, you stopped him. “It weren’t no problem, really. He’s a lovely boy,” you explained, once again trying to stop the tears from welling up in your eyes. Taking care of Jack had easily been one of the highlights of your life. Having someone need you, someone that loved talking to you, someone who was simply excited to be around you - it was such a drastic change from how you had lived for so long. And, even if you would never experience it again, you wouldn’t trade the last few weeks for the world.

John nodded, you didn’t have to explain any further. “Comeon, Jack, your ma’s been worried sick.” Jack nodded to his father enthusiastically, a grin on his face, before turning and surprising you with a big hug.

You bent over to hug him back, patting him on his head when you heard your name. “You’re coming with us, right?” he asked, his tiny face buried in your dress. You looked around at the others, Arthur had paused in his tracks, John was frozen in place, Dutch was stopped near the gate. No one said anything for a moment.

You don’t know how to break it to him.

So, you pull his face from your skirt and kiss him gently on the forehead, a bittersweet smile on your lips. “I’m real sorry, Jack,” you say, looking him in the eye, “but not this time.” You felt tempted to say something like I promise I’ll write or You can come see me any time but you knew both of these things weren’t true. He would get home to his family, and in a few days you would just be a stranger from his childhood. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you stood again, ruffling his hair and turning him to face his father. “Now, you go on back to your family, alright? Teach them how to make some good bread, like I showed you.”

His head was shaking as he looked back up at you, tears welling in his big brown eyes. “But…”

This hurt. More than saying goodbye to a child you had only known for a few weeks should. “I know, but…” you started, still not entirely sure how to explain yourself. “I have to stay here. This… this is my home.” You pull him to you once again in a tight hug and place a kiss on the top of his head. “You be good for your parents, alright?”

You can feel him nod under your chin, but he does not respond. It’s easy to tell that this is a new feeling for him - being so happy and so sad all at once. You wished you could tell him that its only temporary, and he will never have these conflicting feelings again. You wished you could have gone with him, broken free of Angelo Bronte and this life. There were so many things you wished you could do at that moment, but you couldn’t. Or you wouldn’t.

With a light sob, Jack wraps his arms around you one final time until he is gently pulled away by his father. “Comeon, son. We should get going.”

They walked to the gate together, John’s hand on his son’s back, leading the way. Jack was hoisted high onto a horse, and you could vaguely hear them talking to him, trying to cheer him up. “We have a new camp set up, Jack, you’re going to love it,” says Dutch before they ride off down the street.

Finally, you allow your tears to fall.

“Goodbye, Jack.”

---

The days pass slowly after Jack’s goodbye. There is little entertainment to pass the time. No dumb jokes, no begging for stories. It was exactly as it was before. Still, it felt like something was missing.

Early in the morning, a few days later, you walked around the house as usual, coffee in hand. You mused over the tasks for the days ahead: the Governor's garden party was in about a week, so it was time to start preparing. Clothes needed to be pressed, shoes to be shined, and, most importantly, mounds of food needed to be cooked.

Giovanni’s cooking was, although rarely shared outside of Signor Bronte’s home, lauded as some of the best in town. So, of course, Angelo Bronte’s personal chef would be graciously catering the meal.

It was supposed to be a sign of generosity, you theorised, but in reality it was all a show to keep Signor Bronte in the San Denis elite’s good graces - and to worm his way into another favor from the mayor.

You chuckled lightly to yourself as you paced slowly around the perfectly manicured gardens. Marble statues, imported from Italy, gazed down at you, unmoving. Quietly, you began to hum a short tune, not noticing the figure at the fence across from you.

“Mornin’,” he called, his voice low and gruff, just as it had been when you had first met him.

You look up from the grass to the man, in surprise. He was leaning aginst the fence, patiently smoking a cigarette, and waiting. For you? “Ah, good morning, Mr. Morgan,” you call, making your way to him. He stubs out his cigarette on his boot and turns to fully face you. Only now, in the morning sunlight and away from the stress of Angelo Bronte, do you notice how attractive he is. Light brown hair framed an unshaven face, a strong jawline, light smattering of chest hair showing through the top of his unbuttoned collar. “It’s lovely to see you again. How is Jack doing?”

Arthur smiles at you, and the sun suddenly seems slightly brighter. “Boah’s doin’ good,” he says, leaning forward on the fence, one arm above his head to balance himself. “He’s happy to be home.”

You shoot him a small, bittersweet smile before turning your gaze to your coffee. “Good, I’m glad.”

“Misses you, though,” he continues, once he realises you aren’t going to say anything more. You look up at him, and notice he is fishing something out of his satchel. A small, folded piece of paper is passed through the bars of the fence, and you gently pluck it from his hand. “Sent this. Special delivery.”

You gently unfold the paper, and see a row of several stick figures, several people and what looks to be a dog, standing in front of some trees under a sunny sky. Under each of the figures, you can see several names scribbled in an adult’s hand.

Pa, Ma, Jack, Cain, Uncle Arthur… and you.

“Been told to tell you,” he continues, reaching through the fence with the hand that had been keeping him balanced and pointed at the figures on the paper. “That’s you… with us…”

You laugh lightly, glancing from the paper to the eyes of the man in front of you. A handsome teal, complimented by his, admittedly dirty, blue shirt. How had you not noticed him before? “This is real sweet of him, thank you,” you breathe, slightly softer than you had intended. You turn again to look at the drawing, hoping he didn’t notice the blush that had suddenly stained your cheeks.

The two of you stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the sun rise above the horizon. “You could come with us, you know,” he said after a minute, pulling another cigarette from his satchel and lighting it. “The boah would shoa be happy to have you ‘round.”

You smile at the thought. Waking up in the fresh air, telling Jack stories, getting to know his family. It would be lovely. But at the end of the day, it was easier said than done. “That… that’s a nice dream,” you told him, smiling.

He huffed, and took a long drag from his cigarette. “It’s true,” he tells you, leaning against the fence once more. “The life… well it ain’t pretty. Sure as hell not as pretty as livin’ in a mansion. But it’s free. You ain’t gotta answer to no one you don’t want.”

You scoffed and found yourself kicking at the grass beneath your feet. It would surely be better than what you had here. Hell, it would be easy enough to walk through the gates with the intention to never come back. And, what was even keeping you here? Your family? You hadn’t seen them in years. Giovanni? Anna? They would both leave if they could.

But, you knew it wasn’t possible. You’ve seen this kind of thing before. One of your fellow servants found a means of escape, only to be back within a week. If they weren’t found and killed onsight. Angelo Bronte had eyes in every corner. Flies on every wall. He would find you.

“I… I wish I could.”

You went to bed late that evening, your conversation with Arthur resounding in your head. You could come with us, you know. The boy would sure be happy to have you around. The thought had even permeated your dreams, enveloping you in a fantasy world. A beautiful campsite by a river, a group of people, happy, laughing, free. Jack and Arthur and John and Dutch, and even Giovanni and Anna. They were all there, and they were all happy.

But, of course, the threat lingered. What had started as a beautiful dream quickly turned sour as Angelo Bronte entered the scene, scaring away your friends, capturing you and dragging you back to San Denis, into a mansion that looked more like a prison with every step. You would never escape him. You could never be free.

You had woken early in the morning, covered in sweat and sheets kicked from the bed. Breathing heavily, you glanced at the clock in the corner of the room. It was early, but not early enough to warrant going back to sleep. Groaning, you stepped quietly from your bed and pulled on your dressing gown. Your morning ritual would begin earlier today.

The air was crisp, but your coffee was hot - the perfect combination for waking a person up in the morning. The birds sang in their early morning chorus as the slowly rising sun cast everything in a calm, light blue. It was earlier than you had been up in ages, and you were fully prepared to sit in the garden, alone, and bask in the peacefulness.

To your surprise, however, the increasingly-familiar smell of cigarette smoke and campfire reached you. You turned to the fence, the same place as the day prior, to be greeted by the rugged cowboy, leaning casually against the railing. Tired as you were, you couldn’t keep the smile from lighting up your face.

“Good morning, Mr. Morgan,” you say, making your way over to him, coffee cradled in both hands. You took a sip, thinking that you may need to start making two cups if this becomes a habit. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon. How’s Jack?”

Arthur’s grin immediately made your stomach flip. “Mornin’, miss,” he responded, tipping his hat to you. He lazilly flicked the butt of his cigarette to the ground before leaning against the fence again, his arm above his head, like he had done the day before. “Boah’s doin’ good. Still talkin’ ‘bout you.” His grin never left his face as he looked at you.

You cleared your throat and maintained eye contact even though you were sure you could feel the blush spreading across your cheeks. “Well, ain’t he a sweetheart?” you tease, only partially talking about Jack.

He chuckled and reached into his bag, mirroring his actions from the day prior. “I been asked to deliver this,” he said, pulling out a string of slightly crumpled red flowers from his bag. They were strung together, tied at the stems, into a long, vibrant necklace.

You gingerly took the necklace from him with a smile, examining it. Wild yarrow. “Oh, it’s beautiful,” you respond, pulling it over your head before striking a cheesy pose for the man in front of you. “How do I look?”

God, you could look at his smile all day. “Gorgeous,” he responds, only slightly teasing, and you are suddenly struck with a feeling of giddy embarrassment. It was rare that you got on with someone this well, this quickly. But with Arthur Morgan, despite his rough exterior, you felt strangely comfortable.

The two of you stood together, talking through the morning sunrise until you were very nearly late for work. When the sun was almost fully above the horizon, you found yourself giggling and dashing into the house, with one last glance to the cowboy at the fence, eyes shining.

And so it went.

For the next week, like clockwork, you would wake, go for your walk, and meet Arthur Morgan at the fence. Gifts, supposedly all from Jack, were exchanged - a nice rock, a beautiful notebook, a seashell, a fountain pen - and you sent your fair share of notes back, including candy for the boy, and a (stolen) flask of good whisky for your postman.

Soon enough, you found yourself gladly waking earlier in the morning - butterflies in your stomach as you made your way outside to greet him. Your mood was better, despite Jack’s farewell only a week ago, and even your colleagues had taken notice.

“What’s got you walking around here all smiles lately?” Anna had asked on the morning before the Mayor’s garden party, as you sat together, adding finishing touches to several large pies that were to go into the oven.

You scoffed, still unable to wipe the smile from your face, and looked at her over the stack of pans in front of you. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you responded. “Now don’t distract yourself with me, we need to get this all ready to take this afternoon.” Your chiding didn’t deter her, as she continued pestering you the rest of the day.

Her teasing had very little effect on your mood, however, despite the large amount of work ahead of you. And, so, the day passed quickly, in anticipation of the coming evening. It was well known throughout San Denis that Angelo Bronte had one of the best chef’s in town under his employ, so the household staff was asked to provide a portion of the catering. It was a massive, and time consuming project, but it was well worth the work.

You finally had the opportunity to get out of the house, even if it were for just an evening, which would be an incredible change of pace. Almost before you could even gather your bearings, you were slipping into your best uniform, and were on your way to the even larger home.

You had been to the Mayor’s home a handful of times, but it still left you in awe. If you had thought that Angelo Bronte lived in the lap of luxury, but this home was somehow even more opulent. Marble pillars, statues lining the hallways, mahogany floors, golden chandeliers, art on every wall. You had to make a conscious effort to not allow your jaw to drop as you walked through the hallways to the kitchen. There was no time to dawdle, guests would be arriving shortly.

With an unintentional grunt, you hoisted the box of chopped vegetables you were carrying onto a table, and got to work helping Giovanni finish up a large pot of étouffée. It took some time, but after some significant effort from yourself, Giovanni, and Anna, as well as plenty of help from the Mayor’s own servants, the food was served and guests were mingling in the garden.

You leaned carefully against a counter and wiped sweat from your brow. Cooking for upwards of 100 people was exhausting, not to mention that the kitchen was absolutely scalding. You could use a large glass of water and a breath of fresh air.

Nodding at your colleagues, you told them as much before stepping into the hallway and taking a deep breath of the cooler air. If you were lucky, no one would be on the upstairs balcony, and you could head out and watch the fireworks for a few minutes. As you made your way to the back staircase, hoping that the balcony would be empty, you spotted a flash of a black tuxedo and familiar light brown hair in front of you.

Arthur Morgan. Now what was he doing here?

With a smirk, you carefully followed him up the stairs, catching a further glimpse of him as he entered the first door on the second floor. You hadn’t been up here before, but with the way he was walking, you could be sure that he wasn’t sneaking off to the toilet.

Glancing around, you saw no one else in the hallway.

Good.

Slowly, carefully, you pushed open the door to what appeared to be an office. And there, in all his glory, was Arthur Morgan, rummaging through the Mayor’s desk. As you snuck in and quietly closed the door behind you, he slipped a small stack of papers into his tuxedo jacket.

You took a moment to look over him. Damn, he cleaned up well. A recent haircut, clean shaven, and a brand new tuxedo made him look like an entirely new man. Not that you had any problem with the bearded, dirt-covered version of him that had been meeting you all week.

“You ain’t supposed to be here,” you said quietly, startling him. He turned to you, wide-eyed, his hand instinctively flying to where his pistol was usually holstered. He was red in the face, adrenaline pumping, and you had to admit that it was a very good decision to not allow weapons at this party.

Upon seeing you, however, he noticeably relaxed. Face still red, he glanced quickly around the room before moving toward you, a predator stalking its prey. “Could say the same to you,” he whispered, voice low, as he backed you slowly toward the door.

That familiar feeling of butterflies in your stomach rose again as he neared, but you held your chin high in defiance - and then you did something even you didn’t quite expect. You kissed him.

Lunged would be a more accurate description. You closed the distance between the two of you in a second, lips crashing with his. You had only known him for a week, but somehow it felt like you had been wanting to do this your entire life.

After a moment of shock, he returned the kiss, lips frantically moving with yours as he wrapped his hands around your body. He was warm and strong, and smelled of campfire and cologne and you wanted to get lost in him. You wanted to lose yourself with him. Reaching up, you ran your fingers through his hair until you reached the base of his neck, pulling him closer to you.

He moved with you, slowly, steps matching yours, until your back was flush against the door. For only a moment, he pulled away. You heard the light click of a key and he was on you again, hands fluttering over your hips as he began to work his lips down your jawline. You had to swallow the moan threatening to spill from your lips as you pulled him impossibly closer, fingers toying with the ends of his hair. Then you pulled.

He leaned back with a guttural groan, following your hands as you gently pulled at the hairs on the nape of his neck. His cheeks were flushed, hair mussed, and he looked absolutely gorgeous. You couldn’t help yourself as you pulled him back to you, wrapping your arms around his neck and crashing your lips to his.

The taste of him, the feel of him, it was overwhelming and you wished you could be surrounded by him like this for the rest of your life. Silently, lips still on yours, he turned the two of you so that your back was against the nearby bookshelf. You lifted a leg and wrapped it around his, grinding into him without breaking your kiss.

Before you knew what was happening, his hands moved from your hips to pull up the skirt of your dress and finger the waistband of your bloomers. A nip at the bottom of your lip brought out a groan from you as he slowly made his way into your underclothes, exploring until he found your core.

Gently, he toyed with your lower lips, ghosting his fingers along the outside teasingly. If you were in any other state of mind, you would have been embarrassed about the way your hips began moving - wantonly, desperately, trying to maneuver his exploratory fingers exactly where you wanted them.

But Arthur Morgan was apparently not feeling cooperative. He pulled away from your kiss and brought his hand out of your bloomers at the same time, leading you to throw your head back against the bookshelf with a desperate groan.

The twinkle in his eyes matched the mischievous smirk on his face as he looked down at you, your breathing heavy, cheeks flushed. The cocky bastard knew exactly what he was doing, and he was enjoying this. This torment.

With a sudden burst of courage that you didn’t know you had in you, you found yourself pushing him backward. Hands on his chest, you led him roughly to the mayor’s desk, and lunged. Lips crashed once again with his, the taste of whisky and tobacco overwhelming you once again. Your fingers toyed with his tuxedo jacket before slipping underneath and sliding it from his shoulders.

As good as he looked in this outfit, he was far too clothed for your taste.

Next came his vest, unbuttoned with help from him as you both lost your patience. You peeled his suspenders off until they hung loosely at his sides, and finally all that stood between you and his bare chest was his shirt. He yanked it roughly from his pants, the two of you unbuttoning it as quickly as your shaking fingers allowed, and flung it across the room before leaning in for another desperate kiss.

As his lips met yours once again, you felt him push you back toward the bookshelf as he untied your apron to pull it over your head. Next, his fingers unbuttoned the high collar of your dress, quickly followed quickly by his lips as he placed kisses and nips on your flushed skin. He trailed ever downward - to your collarbone, to your cleavage - drawing moans from your parted lips.

Desperately, you reached for his face and pulled him back up to you, caressing the smooth shaven skin as you kissed. Once satisfied, your hands wandered downward, toying with the hair splayed across the hot, hard panes of his chest. Slowly, teasingly, you followed the path of his hair with your fingers until you reached the top of his pants, and his breath hitched in your mouth.

Your kiss slowed and turned into a peck as you undid the button and pushed his pants down, revealing muscular thighs framing a growing bulge hidden under his underclothes. Pushing down the thin cotton finally revealed his swollen member, which you took gently into your hand as you pulled him in for another heated kiss.

He groaned into your mouth, growing impossibly harder with each stroke, until he pulled away to look you into the eye. His face was flushed, his hair in shambles, and you swore you had never seen anything so beautiful in your entire life. You nodded, and allowed him to hoist up your skirt and slide into you through the slit in your bloomers.

In unison, groans left both of your mouths. You were balanced precariously on a bookshelf, your leg wrapped around his waist as he sank into you, head thrown back in pleasure. Once he gathered his bearings, he slowly, torturously slowly, began to move.

He thrust in and out, in and out, his face buried into your shoulder. Each thrust was paired with a small grunt and a gasp from you. You reveled in the feeling, the warmth, the intensity.

His hands gripped your hips through the fabric of your dress, pulling you closer to him with each thrust. You wrapped your arms around his neck, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him up to you. Your lips met, tongues entangled as tiny gasps swelled up from your throat. It was all you could do to keep in the loud moan that was threatening to spill from your lips.

With each thrust, the bookshelves shook, sending a few trinkets to the carpeted floor with a light thump. You should be more careful. The thought echoed in your mind for only a second before it was whisked away by another thrust that shook you to the core.

As he grew closer and closer to completion, his thrusts became faster, more frantic, and you found yourself clutching the edges of the shelf for balance.

Finally, he pulled one of his hands from your hip and wormed it between your bodies to find the place where he had teased you so well before. And then he pressed. And rubbed. And stroked. And finally, in a glaring flash of white before your eyes, you found yourself biting down on his shoulder to keep from screaming his name. Your body shook, your breathing came in harsh gasps, until you could finally open your eyes.

Not a second later, Arthur took a few final thrusts and pulled out of you, stroking his member once, twice, and then spilling himself on the floor with a series of loud gasps. A shaky breath followed as he fell onto you, his head balancing on your chest to catch his breath.

Finally, there was silence, only broken occasionally by a heaving breath. The two of you huddled together against the bookshelves, clinging to each other until you could regain your balance.

You found yourself leaning hard against the shelf behind you, running your fingers through Arthur’s mussed hair. “Those last few gifts… the journal, the pen… those weren’t from Jack, were they?” you asked after a moment, breaking the silence.

A low chuckle came from Arthur, still bent forward with his head balanced on your chest. “I s’pose I’ve been caught again…”

The party ended with a spectacular fireworks show, which you and Arthur watched together, now fully clothed and hidden from sight on the empty balcony. Shortly after the last firework had lit up the night sky, he left you with a lingering kiss that you swore you felt on your lips for the rest of the evening.

To say your head was in the clouds would have been putting it lightly. You would have never expected such a rough, dirty man to be your knight in shining armor, but here you were.

Your good mood carried over through the party cleanup, into the night, and even on into the morning during your daily walk. Glancing at the gate where he usually stood, you were slightly disheartened to see his spot empty. Your smile faltered for just a moment, before you reasoned with yourself. He was probably just tired, or hungover, and just because he had showed up every day for the last week and a half did not mean he could keep up that habit forever.

So, you sat and waited for nearly a half an hour at your normal meeting spot, before heading back inside only slightly disheartened. He had a life outside of meeting you, you reminded yourself, it was unfair to assume he would be there every day when he had never promised this.

Despite your disappointment, your good mood persisted through the day. Through stained laundry, through dusting and mopping, through cleaning a massive pile of cooking dishes from the night before - you couldn’t have wiped the smile off of your face.

And then he didn’t show up again. And again. And again.

For over a week, you missed Arthur’s presence on your morning walks. You found yourself waiting at the fence each day, coffee and the morning paper in hand to pass the time, only to end up disappointed once again. At the very least, there seemed to be a lot of dramatic news to report that week - a trolley station robbery ending with a crashed trolly on main street, a wealthy man on a steamboat robbed for all he was worth - but that information only helped pass the time you spent waiting for him.

Outside of your morning walks, your mood slowly soured. Maybe Arthur had gotten what he wanted. Maybe the dirty, lecherous outlaw’s only goal was to bed you and be on his way. Maybe Jack had forgotten you completely, and with nothing new to deliver, so had Arthur.

You took to writing angrily in the journal he had gotten you, having no other reasonable outlet for your emotions. Originally, you had wanted to toss the damn thing into the fire, but - without someone to vent to, without someone who could understand the depths of your frustration - it seemed like such a waste. Instead, you chose to use the gift for its intended purpose, and wrote down all of your frustrations toward the man who had gifted it to you, before stuffing it underneath your pillow and falling asleep for the night.

There it lay, throughout the day and night until you finally did see Arthur Morgan again. A loud crash, followed by gunshots and yelling in Italian and English from the back gardens, met your ears as you cleaned up after dinner with Anna and Giovanni.

“We’re comin’ for you, Bronte! Send out every man you got!”

The three of you had no guns, and even if you had it sounded less like a gunfight and more like a massacre. Quickly, you locked the doors, hoping that it would be enough to deter the intruders. And then, huddled together out of sight with your friends, you waited.

The back door was kicked open with a gunshot and a loud bang. More gunshots, screams, and crashes echoed through the hallway and into the kitchen. You heard the yells get closer, before the kitchen door was shot and forcefully kicked open.

This was it, this would be your end.

Only, it wasn’t.

Standing in the doorframe was none other than Arthur Morgan, shotgun in hand, eyes frantic… until he caught sight of you.

“Comeon,” he said, rushing over to where the three of you were huddled together and pulling you up by the arm. “You three gotta get outta here,” he ordered, gruffly, hurriedly, as he opened one of the larger windows. “We only came from the back, so head to the front and go somewhere safe.”

Giovanni and Anna looked from each other to you, and then to the open window, hesitant. Another volley of gunfire reached your ears from inside the house. There was no time for debate. “Go ahead,” you told them. “We can trust him.”

That (plus another few rounds of gunfire in quick succession) was all it took. Giovanni nodded to you, grabbed Anna by the forearm, and they were out the window and running across the lawn to safety. You breathed a sigh of relief and turned back to Arthur. There was so much you wanted to say, so much you wanted to ask, but there was no time.

As if sensing your hesitation, he took you by the shoulders and pulled you in for a hug. “Go,” he said, face buried into your hair. “Get to the Fontana, I’ll meet you there when this is over.” You could have sworn you felt a light kiss atop your head before he pressed a crumpled ten dollar bill into your palm and lightly pushed you in the direction of the open window. “Get outta here.”

You nodded, mouthing a quick “thank you” before climbing through the window. In the distance, you could see Anna and Giovanni, silhouetted against the night sky. They were running as fast as they could, to safety, and you felt a pang in your chest. They had been the closest thing you had had to a family for so long. The three of you had been forced together by fate, and had come out a team. But… where would you end up if you followed them?

Likely back in the service of another rich man. But, maybe it would be better. Maybe the freedom you found yourself longing for was to be found in the familiar, the known. Could you really abandon your friends, your way of life, for the promise of a man you had known for little more than a few weeks?

Quickly, you glanced in the opposite direction, toward the city. Toward the Fontana. Toward the promise of freedom. The clock was ticking, you needed to decide. Now.

Torn between what was and what could be, you took a deep breath and took the advice of a child who was far too wise for his age. You ran toward the Fontana. You ran as fast as you could to a new life.

The sound of gunfire and screams followed you to the gates, where it then became overwhelmed by the shouts and sirens of incoming police. Luckily, you were able to slip outside of the gate and get partially down the street before they stopped in front of the house.

Bowing your head, you quickly made your way down the cobblestone street and into the city, away from the violence. By the time you reached the Fontana Theater, the gunshots had all but faded into the hustle and bustle of the city center, and you became acutely aware of how much you didn’t belong. It had been years since you had been anywhere outside of Signore Bronte’s mansion other than the grocery and occasional trip to the tailors. It had been even longer since the last time you had been to a Magic Lantern Theater. And you knew, with your hair mussed and maid’s uniform, you must stick out like a sore thumb.

Luckily, if your memory served, the theater should be dark enough that no one would notice. You slowed your pace, not wanting to draw attention to yourself, and proceeded to the ticket counter, purchasing one ticket to the three upcoming shows. That should be more than enough time, you hoped.

You entered the dimly lit room and practically collapsed into one of the seats. Now that you had managed to escape, now that you were in relative safety, the adrenaline you had felt earlier had completely vanished. You were exhausted. You were confused. You were scared.

Now, you could only wait, and hope that Arthur would be back for you as promised.

In front of you, the film started with a flicker. The recorded voice of a man telling the story of several forest animals as a series of images were projected onto the screen. The room was silent, except for the recording, and you found yourself struggling to keep your eyes open.

What must have been a few hours later, you were shaken awake by an unfamiliar man. You were startled for only a minute before you realised that he was the same man who had sold you the tickets earlier. “That’s the last showing for the day, miss,” he was saying, quietly, pulling his hand away from your shoulder. “I’m afraid you’ll need to be on your way, now.”

You blinked and looked around the room, now flooded with light. It was empty except for the two of you. “What… what time is it?” you stammered, voice cracking lightly.

“‘Bout 11:30,” he responded, looking quickly to his pocket watch to confirm. You had been asleep for a solid 4 hours, and Arthur hadn’t yet arrived. “You should get on home.”

Home. Where was that?

You stood, nodding abashedly at the man. “Thank you,” you murmured before making your way out of the theater and into the dark streets.

It was quiet, the same kind of quiet you had grown so used to on your morning walks. However, instead of finding it calm and refreshing, you found yourself longing for the noisy streets. The hustle and bustle of San Denis that would overpower your thoughts, that would drown out your anxieties.

Instead, you were alone, left to mull over your current situation on the steps of the theater. The long, dark tendrils of doubt crept into your mind as you waited. Did you make the right choice? Did Arthur abandon you? Was all of this some horrible trick? Tears spilled silently from your eyes as you waited. Exhausted. Frustrated. Sad. The only thing to break you out of your thought spiral was the occasional drunk would wander by, heading home for the evening.

Eventually, the ground where you sat grew cold, and you found yourself falling asleep against the wall of the theater, huddled up like an abandoned animal. You could sleep here tonight, in case he did show up, and head … somewhere … in the morning. A hotel, maybe? A workhouse? You didn’t know where, but that was a thought for the morning.

It was only when the steady clip-clop clip-clop of horse hooves made their way down the dark street that you willed yourself to look up. Coming slowly into view through the darkness was a lone rider on a horse. He looked exhausted, frustrated, as he stopped his horse in front of the theater and dismounted, glancing around the area until he spotted you.

You stood on legs that were strangely both stiff and shaky and made your way over to him, where he pulled you into a tight hug.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbled, once again burying his face in your hair. “Didn’t mean to leave you so long.” You nodded against his chest, gripping at the fabric of his shirt as tears of relief threatened to spill. “Let’s get you home.”

The ride went by in a blur. Not that you were moving fast, but rather because you were so exhausted that everything was a bit of a haze. You must have arrived at the large, dilapidated mansion early into the morning, before anyone was up to disturb you, because you could not remember the journey into Arthur’s bed for the life of you.

There was no crunch of the grass as you slid off the saddle, no creek of the stairs, no groan of the bed as the two of you lay down together. Nothing. All you could remember was that you were here. You were safe. You were home.

You awoke around midday, sunlight streaming through the broken windows of a small-rundown room overlooking the swamps of Lemoyne. It was sweltering hot, but you found yourself cuddling closer into the strong arms that were wrapped around you. The scent of the swamps mixed with whisky and tobacco, campfire and gunsmoke, as you nuzzled into his chest.

He was breathing deeply, soundly, as you lifted your head from his chest to look around. The room itself was old and dilapidated, it would barely serve as a shelter during any storms that may strike. In the far corner stood an old shelf, filled with photos and trinkets. Next to it, a small table with a map, and across from that, a larger table, stacked to the brim with weapons and ammunition.

Arthur’s room.

You stood, intending to make your way over to examine the trinkets across the room, but were instead gently pulled back to bed by the man behind you. “Mornin’,” he grumbled, not bothering to open his eyes as he held you close.

You acquiesced, leaning back into him and basking in his presence. “Mornin’, Mr. Morgan,” you whispered back to him, gazing over his face. His eyes were still closed, but he couldn’t keep a small smile from forming as you spoke. Gently, you brushed hair away from his forehead and planted a light kiss to the revealed skin. “Thank you.”

He chuckled, finally opening his eyes to look at you. You could have melted in the soft, loving look that came your way. “Nothin’ to thank me for,” he said, reaching up to run his thumb along your cheek in admiration. “Just needed to get you out alive, is all.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “I feel like that deserves thanks.”

A scoff came from the man beside you. “Nah, it was all selfish, really,” he explained, his gaze travelling over every inch of your face as if he were committing it to memory. “I just wanted to keep you ‘round.” With that, he planted a quick kiss on your lips and sat up, turning to his satchel that had been tossed to the floor by the bed. “It weren’t pretty last night… ‘n’ I’m glad I got to you before it got worse.”

“What happened?” you asked, watching as he pulled the satchel to him and began to rifle through it.

“Bronte… well he done his best to screw us over,” he explained. “Set some traps for us… ‘n’ Dutch made sure he paid for it.” You figured you knew what he meant, but let him continue anyway. “Bastard’s dead - some poor alligator’s breakfast.”

To your surprise, you felt incredibly conflicted. The man had essentially kept you hostage for the last few years, but he had at least taken care of you. He had by no means been a good person, but… you had grown some sort of strange affinity for him over the years. And yet, you didn’t find yourself shedding a tear for him. If anything, it was like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders, like you could finally breathe freely after so long.

You didn’t know what to say.

“I did manage to get hold of these, though,” he said, pulling several items from his satchel. You gasped when you saw them, and felt the tears that wouldn’t fall for Bronte begin to well up. In Arthur’s hands were a child’s drawing, a flower crown, a very special rock, a beautiful journal, and a fountain pen.

Now, the tears did fall as you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him. “Thank you, Arthur,” you said, burying your face into his neck. “Thank you so incredibly much.”

With a small chuckle, he set the momentos down on his lap, and wrapped his arms around you as well. “‘Course.”

The two of you stayed like that, reveling in each other’s embrace, for a few perfect, blissful minutes. So this is what it felt like to be wanted. This is what it felt like to have someone really, truly care about you. This is the feeling you had been waiting for for so long.

It wasn’t a minute later before there was a tentative knock on your door, and Arthur pulled himself away from the hug. “I think someone might be excited to see you,” he said, nodding toward the door.

You looked over, calling for the visitor to come in. As the door swung open, you were greeted with the sound of your name excitedly being called, and the sight of a child, red with excitement, standing in the doorway. Jack. “You’re here! You’re really here!” he exclaimed, darting over to you and jumping into your arms. He was followed by a smiling, dark-haired woman, and a man who you recognised as John. “I knew it! I knew you would come live with us!”

“Of course, Jack,” you childed, squeezing him tight. “I could never leave you.”

He squeezed you back, before pulling away and grabbing your forearm to lead you out of the room. “Come on!” he said, leading you forward. “You have to meet the rest of our family!”

#rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x f!reader #f!reader #rdrbigbang2021 #rdrbigbang

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sometimesitrytowritethings · 4 years ago

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Fanfic Writer Friday

Alright fellow fanfic friends, it’s Friday, the best day of the week, and it’s about to get a lot more fun. Ya know why?

Reblog this post if you want people to send you asks about your writing process, wip/fics, or headcanons today! For each ask you get, send and ask back in return!

This is a weekly event, to be held every Friday (obviously) and is open to all fanfic writers in any fandom! Don’t be shy about sending asks to blogs you don’t know—this is a great way for writers to get to know different blogs and fics, and make new friends!

(in case you feel like you’ve seen something like this before, this is based of of writeblr’s Storyteller Saturday, aka STS!)

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sometimesitrytowritethings · 4 years ago

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(Banner by @southernlynxx)

Hey again, Outlaws!

We will be running another round of Red Dead Rodeo on

Friday, May 21 at 21:00 UTC (see in your timezone)!

Hope to see you there!

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sometimesitrytowritethings · 4 years ago

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Outlaw: Part 3

Image source

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader

Word count: 4.3k

Warnings: Angst, Swearing, Canon-typical violence, Stalking, Implied future assault, Fear of death

Summary: All you wanted was to be left alone, to forget Arthur Morgan existed entirely. But, damn it, fate still had other plans in mind.

Notes: "TrYiNg To PoSt EvErY wEeK." Lol, who was I kidding. Anyway, enjoy!

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The morning sun peeked over the horizon, casting your surroundings in shades of gold. Birds chirped in the spring air as a comforting scent overwhelmed your senses.

It took a moment for you to place it; campfire, hay, whisky, tobacco. It was him. It all smelled like him, and you suddenly hated yourself for enjoying it. For wanting to nuzzle deeper into the blanket, your son in your arms, and stay in this strange cot forever.

But, of course you couldn’t.

Even if you could have, your pride wouldn’t have allowed it.

You were angry with the man, furious. There was no reason for you to lay there like a lovesick teen, getting drunk off the smell of his dirty blankets.

You hated him, didn’t you remember?

Sighing, you raised your head quietly from the cot and pulled the blanket off of you. The cool, damp morning air hit your skin, and you could feel your hair stand on end. It had been a while since you had spent the night outside. The last had been when you were young, gazing at the stars with Andrew and then waking up, covered in a blanket, hair wet with morning dew and your husband beside you. Those had been some of the best times of your life.

The chill in the air and the dew on the grass brought back memories as you stepped out of bed, but it wasn’t the same. Instead of falling asleep under the stars with your lover at your side, you found yourself hiding out in the wild. Running from a gang of monsters who had never before paid attention to you.

Silently, you pulled the blankets back over Ben, still fast asleep, and glanced around the small space.

Arthur’s space.

It felt wrong, almost voyeuristic, to be there without him. His entire life was on display in front of you. Some of the things you already knew, like a photograph of Mary with a letter tucked underneath. But there was so much more that you had never come to know during your short time with the man. So much that he hadn’t told you. So much you had never seen. Photos of his mother and father, a dog, a picture of him with two older men. An orchid, dried and in a jar. A chocolate bar and a child’s drawing. It was all so strange, and a completely different side to the man who you had known... who you barely knew.

Suddenly, you were shaken from your investigation by someone clearing their throat at the entrance of the tent. You turned quickly, embarrassed at having been caught, and were met with the sight of a young woman. Dressed in a thick coat, her dark hair pulled back into a low bun, she held two steaming cups of coffee.

“Mornin’,” she said quietly, so as not to wake Ben, who was still sleeping soundly in Arthur’s cot. “Thought you might like some coffee.”

With a small smile, you followed her out of the tent before daring to speak. “That would be lovely, thank you,” you replied, taking the cup from her outstretched hand and following her to the nearby table. It was early enough that very few people seemed to be awake, and for that you were grateful. Their curious stares would only come later, after you had woken up a bit more.

The cup warmed your chilled fingers as you sat, looking at the woman across from you. She was young, a few years younger than yourself, with kind brown eyes and lovely dark hair. “‘m Abigail,” she introduced herself, taking a sip of her coffee. “Charles told me what happened last night. How’re you holdin’ up?”

You cleared your throat and glanced around the camp, wary of eavesdroppers, before giving the woman your name. “I… I’m fine, I suppose,” you responded quietly, shooting a quick glance back at the tent where your son was asleep. “I’m still a bit… shaken, but thanks to Charles’s quick thinking we got out alright.”

You took another sip of your coffee to steady yourself as the memories of the night flooded back to you. Walking home in the dark, being followed by those men - O’Driscolls, Charles had called them - the feeling of hot breath on your neck, the sound of gunshots ringing through your ears. By the time you had replayed the events over again, your hands were shaking lightly. You set the cup down on the table and pressed your fingers into your eyelids, as if that would push the images away.

“I’m just glad… just glad that we were able to get Ben away too,” you murmured to her, finally taking your hands away from your face. She looked at you with sympathy before reaching out and gently taking your hand in hers.

“I’m glad too,” her voice was soft, full of emotion. “If someone took my Jack from me… if I weren’t able to save him somehow... well, I don’t know what I would do.” You followed her gaze to a small lean-to across the camp, where you spotted a young boy, about Ben’s age, cuddled in a pile of blankets.

Then you knew - she understood. Smiling gently at her, you took another sip of your coffee in companionable silence, allowing yourself time to decompress. After a few minutes, Abigail rose to pour the two of you another cup, and you glanced around the camp once more. In the daylight, it was easier to make out the dozen or so open tents and lean-tos, each with a few dozing people beneath them. In the middle of the circle, stood a larger tent, its flaps tied tightly shut.

Across from the large tent, stood what looked like a provisions wagon. Several skinned deer hung from a makeshift drying rack as a burly man got to work chopping vegetables on a dirty butchers’ block. Next to the wagon, was the campfire that boasted a pot and percolator full of coffee. Two young women stood with Charles beside the fire, who gave you a brief nod when your eyes met.

As the two of you shared your second cup of coffee, the camp slowly began to come to life. Several men came from out of the nearby trees and laid down to rest, as Charles and another man went to take their place. Guards, you suspected.

Javier woke from his tent next to another campfire and gave you a brief nod before heading to grab an apple from the provisions. Sean, the redhead from the night before, still laid passed out next to where Javier had been sleeping.

You had to admit, despite the circumstances, this was nice. Somehow, peaceful.

As you finished your second cup of coffee, you could hear sudden, panicked cries coming from the direction of Arthur’s tent. “Mama? Mama!?” The moment your son’s frantic shouts reached your ears, you darted in his direction with Abigail on your heels. “Mama?!”

“Ben? Ben it’s alright,” you said, trying to keep your voice calm as you entered the tent. Ben had sat up in the small cot, tears streaming down his cheeks. His eyes and nose were flushed red from crying, and he immediately sprung out of bed and into your arms as soon as he saw you. You shushed him, petting the top of his curls and hugging him to you. “It’s alright, sweetheart. I’m here.”

His breaths came in sharp, panicked sobs, even as he began to calm down in your arms. He tried to speak, but his words only came out in stammered, broken sentences. “I… didn’t… you… home…” he cried into your blouse, clutching the fabric in tiny fists.

“Shhhh,” you whispered into his hair, kneeling down to the ground and pulling him into your chest. “Mama’s here. It’s alright, sweetheart,” you continued to calm him, rubbing his back and cuddling him close, far too distracted to notice the small commotion outside of the tent. You can’t imagine how much of a shock it must have been, waking up alone and in a strange place. Kicking yourself for leaving the tent, you shushed him further. “I know, I know,” you whispered, your attempts to soothe the crying boy working slowly. “I’m here, it’s alright.”

It was only when you heard a throat clear that you realised someone else had entered the tent. For only a moment, you glanced up at the man standing behind you, a large buck slung over his shoulder and his eyes wide as saucers. Arthur was back, and was evidently not entirely happy at seeing you in his tent.

Unfortunately, he would need to wait. This was his space, but your son was your priority. “It’s alright, sweetheart,” you murmured, getting to your feet now that Ben’s sobs had turned to quiet whimpers. “Are you hungry? Let’s go see if we can find some food, alright?”

You felt his nod more than you saw it, as he latched onto your legs. Reaching down, you tried to gently pry him off and coax him into taking your hand. “Come on, I bet Abigail can show us where to get breakfast, and then you can meet Jack,” you said quietly, pointedly avoiding Arthur’s shocked gaze. Ben nodded again, and reluctantly let go of your legs to hold your outstretched hand.

It took a lot of patience and soothing words to drag Ben over to where Abigail stood, waiting. She held out two rolls and an apple for the both of you with a gentle smile at the child hiding behind you. Without a word, she led you back to the table where your coffee sat, now cold. You sat in your chair from earlier, pulling Ben into your lap and setting the roll in front of him.

He didn’t touch it.

Instead, he turned to you and buried his face into your shoulder, shy and embarrassed. With a sigh, you rubbed his back, trying your best to ignore the stares that the earlier outburst had now drawn.

“He’ll come ‘round,” came Abigail’s voice from across the table. “Must’ve been awful scary wakin’ up in some strange tent.” She sat down across from you, pulling out a small knife to cut the apple. It would be much easier to coax some food into your son this way.

You mouthed a “thank you” towards her as you felt Ben turn his head slightly. He was still nuzzled into your neck, but had one eye out, looking warily at the woman across from him.

“I’m Abigail,” she told him, reaching across the table with a slice of apple in her hand. “Here, you hungry?” Slowly, Ben finally to face her, but diverted his eyes to the grains of the wooden table. His whimpers had all but faded, but his eyes and nose were still swollen from his tears.

You nudged him slightly, urging him to take the bit of apple. And, after a moment, he did.

Gingerly, he held it in his hand and began nibbling on the end as he looked warily around the camp. Luckily, the stares had mostly stopped at that point, as everyone had moved onto their morning chores. However, one pair of eyes were focused directly on the two of you.

Even if you hadn’t followed your son’s gaze, you still would have felt his turquoise eyes burning holes into you from across the camp. He had handed over the buck to the man at the provisions wagon long ago, and now was speaking quietly to Javier, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. Your eyes met his and the world froze for just a moment.

Immediately, you were taken back to the few occasions you had met him. The night at Smithfield’s, the hotel bath, behind the town jail, the boarding house, and finally, the Downes ranch. Your short relationship had been tumultuous, to say the least. Unimaginable highs and electric chemistry followed by crashing lows and a devastating realisation. At that point, you felt you had seen enough of the man to know what you needed to know. Not only had he made it abundantly clear that the two of you wouldn’t work, but he had additionally gone on to strongarm your surrogate family just a few weeks later.

You should hate him. You should despise him for how he had treated Thomas. You should loathe him for how he left things with you.

And yet…

Here you were, unable to tear your eyes from his. Unable to contain the butterflies that had reemerged in your stomach.

And instead of hating him, you found that you hated yourself.

You were pulled harshly out of your thoughts as his name rang across the camp from the large tent. “Arthur, son, I need to talk to you for a moment!” He jumped slightly, before letting out an irritated grumble and heading in the direction of the voice.

Swallowing hard, you turned again to look at your son, who had finally nibbled his way through an apple slice and was looking with interest at the other small boy who had just woken up across the camp. Abigail seemed to have taken notice of this and called for him, “Jack, why don’t you come over here and join us?”

The boy nodded eagerly and galloped over to his mother, climbing into her lap. “Morning, Mama!” he chimed, grinning wide and grabbing a slice of apple from the table. He looked the two of you over, before leaning into Abigail and whispering something in her ear.

She laughed lightly and introduced you and your son. “Maybe you can show him the chickens? What do you think?”

Jack nodded in excitement and hopped down to the ground. “Sure! I’ll show you my favorite! I call her Clucky, but no one else does,” he rambled. Ben, now significantly calmer and slightly excited at the prospect of a friend his age (or maybe he was excited about the chickens?) looked up at you for permission. You smiled at him and nodded, relief flooding you as he climbed off your lap and ran with the other boy to the edge of camp.

Kids were resilient, you knew that, but it still was heartbreaking to see your son so scared and confused.

“Thank you, Abigail,” you said after a moment, fiddling with a slice of apple that had been left on the table.

“It weren’t nothing,” she replied quickly, standing from her seat. “Now, I gotta go get some work done, but I’ll be ‘round in case you need anything.”

You nodded to her again as she walked away, before taking a moment to let out a long, exhausted sigh. What now?

The camp bustled around you; doing chores and talking amongst one another, largely ignoring your presence. They seemed friendly enough, but were obviously very busy. Across the camp, you could see Ben and Jack walking behind a chicken, trying to coax it into their arms.

A small smile graced your lips. It was good to see him spending time with children his age. Lord knew there weren’t many other children in Valentine he could socialise with, so this was a very nice change of pace.

After a few minutes, your eye was drawn back to the large tent in the center of camp as the front flap was drawn open. Arthur stepped out and held the canvas wide for two other men who followed him into the sunlight. The first, a man a few years older than Arthur with an ornate red vest and dark hair slicked back with pomade, gave you a quick glance before addressing his companions. “We will take care of Colm, I promise you,” he said, voice projecting over the campsite. “But you need to take her home, this camp ain’t no place for a child.”

“Now, Dutch,” cut in a second man, older and thinner than the first, with graying hair and an outfit that was likely once high quality. “We can’t forget about Jack. It may be good for him to have another child around. And we don’t know where Colm is, let alone if we can handle him at the moment. It would be more reasonable-”

“Hosea, you know as well as I do that we can’t afford another mouth to feed,” explained the first man, Dutch. “They seem like a lovely family, they do, and if something happens, I am truly sorry, but we need to look out for our own first.” At this, the older man raised his hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose in a way that reminded you of Arthur.

“We can’t just leave them at Colm’s mercy. You know that, Dutch,” he continued, waving a hand in your general direction.

“And we won’t, Hosea,” Dutch cut in quickly, turning in your direction and making his way to the table. “Have a little faith, won’t you?” He reached you quickly, confidence radiating from each step before he sat down across from you and extended a hand. “Dutch van der Linde, good morning,” he introduced himself with the same sort of cocky air you had seen on plenty of businessmen visiting town. “This is Hosea, and of course you know Arthur.”

You reached for his hand and gave him your name, glancing at the two other men. Dutch’s handshake was firm, strong and slightly intimidating. Hosea seemed a bit frustrated, worried about the prospect of sending you home, while Arthur tried his best to keep his feelings at bay. “Thank you for letting me stay here last night,” you continued, pulling your hand back. “I don’t know what I would have done if Charles hadn’t been there…”

“Think nothing of it, my dear,” he continued before the other two men could speak. “Those men are monsters, I am just glad we were able to get to you in time.”

We? He hadn’t done anything.

“But in the meantime, this gives us a golden opportunity of sorts,” Dutch’s eyes lit up as began explaining his plan. “Now these were some of Colm O’Driscoll’s boys from what I’ve heard. Monsters, downright rotten, all of them. And with a taste for vengeance, I might add.” You looked from Dutch to Arthur and Hosea, who both seemed significantly less enthusiastic about this plan.

“From what I gather, they aren’t very fond of you right now, my dear. And I’d wager that they’ll come back for you if we give them the opportunity,” he explained, and your eyes narrowed.

What was he getting at? Was he really considering sending you back there to be kidnapped by people he, himself, had described as monsters? You paused for a moment, growing tense. “So, you want to use me…. and my five-year-old son… as bait?” you asked, slowly, words laced with venom.

Maybe Charles had made a mistake in saving you last night.

“You want to put us in danger so you can get… revenge? Or whatever it is that you want?” you continued, looking Dutch directly in the eyes.

He let out a loud laugh and leaned back in his chair, attempting to break the tension and smooth you over. “Now, now, that’s not it at all!” he chided, leaning back further and taking a cigar out of his vest pocket. He lit it and shook out the match with a flourish before continuing, “Rest assured you and your son would be safe the entire time! You can even leave him here until the deed is done!”

Lips pursed together and taking a deep breath through your nose, you let him continue. “We will send you back in a wagon with Arthur, who is our best sharpshooter, I might add. And we will have a few of my men follow behind you at a safe distance. Once Colm and his boys show up, we will take them out and you can go on living your life as you wish.”

“Dutch, I-”

“Damnit, Dutch-”

“Now, Hosea, Arthur, let the woman speak for herself.”

Hosea shut his mouth, frowning. He obviously wasn’t entirely happy with being sidelined by his friend. You looked over the three of them again. This was insane. Charles had saved your life, yes. They had been perfectly hospitable for one evening, yes. But you had no reason to risk your life for them so they could play at their little game of revenge. “And if I disagree?”

At that, Dutch’s charming smile turned into a grim frown. “Now, I’m afraid that ain’t an option, my dear,” he responded, leaning forward on his chair once more. “See, you can’t stay here. We simply don’t have the capacity for two more mouths.” He gestured around at the two-dozen or so men and women around camp.

“Dutch, I said-” started Arthur, before being cut off by the other man once more.

“And it would be unfortunate to send you home without a guard. Like I said, Colm’s boys are monsters…” Dutch trailed off, but you understood the implication perfectly. Colm’s boys are monsters, and you know exactly what they will do if they find you without protection.

“Now, be reasonable Dutch. We can’t send a woman and her child to their deaths,” Hosea scolded, to no avail. Dutch continued looking in your direction, waiting for a response.

“We won’t be sending them to their deaths, Hosea,” Dutch taunted, trying to make light of the situation. “We would be there to protect them. And if we get rid of Colm O’Driscoll in the meantime, then so be it.”

Hands clenched in front of your face, you could see your knuckles turn white as you tried to think of any other way out of this. You could leave on your own, but he was right that those men would probably catch up to you rather quickly. You could find someplace new - a cabin outside of town, perhaps - but you would be starting from next to nothing and had absolutely no idea how to go about that. You could use what little money you had and take the train to New York or Chicago or Saint Dennis… but then you would be left penniless and homeless in a new place.

By the time you had thought through the various scenarios, your jaw was shaking and you could feel the tears of frustration welling up in your eyes. This was all so stupid. You were stupid.

You should have known.

After Arthur, after everything, you should have known that your saving grace the previous evening would come at a cost.

These were not good people.

But, now, you didn’t have a choice. You were alive, Ben was alive, and you didn’t have a choice but to repay the people who had saved you. For your sake, for Ben’s sake, you would have to go along with this plan.

“Fine,” you spat, glaring at the man across the table. “But Ben stays here, at least until this is over… at least until it’s safe.”

Dutch clapped his hands together and leaned back in his chair again, blatantly ignoring your frustration. “That’s great to hear!” he said, his voice once again projected through the entire camp; a show of dominance. He let out a loud chuckle and stood from his seat, turning to the others, who were now paying attention. “Arthur, ready the wagon, we’ll leave within the hour. Bill, Charles, Javier, with me. We’ll finally take this bastard down!” he could hardly contain his mirth, rubbing his hands together and grinning as he walked back to his tent. Almost as an afterthought, he turned to you, “And we will get you and your boy home safe, of course.”

In that moment, you wanted to scream. You wanted to lunge at this strange man and tear his perfectly coiffed hair from his head. You were about to risk your life as payment for it being saved, and he was happy? He kept calling those men from last night monsters, but you were starting to think he may have been exactly the same.

Instead, you swallowed your fury and made your way to Ben and Jack. The two boys seemed to be completely unaware of the situation, the chickens having kept their attention through the entire thing. As you approached, the two of them had hold of one of the chickens, Clucky, you guessed, and were petting it lovingly as they fed it corn kernels from the palm of their hands and giggled.

You cleared your throat and plastered a smile on your face, hoping your fury wasn’t too obvious. “Ben, sweetheart?” you called. He looked up from the chicken, curls bouncing and a large grin illuminating his face.

“Mama! Look!” he responded, patting the chicken on its head. “This is Clucky! Me and Jack are gonna teach him to do a trick!”

Your laugh was less amused than it normally would have been, but it seemed to do the trick. “Oh, really? And what trick is that?”

“I’ve been trying to teach him to fly, but it didn’t work,” Jack explained, the poor chicken still clutched to his chest. “So, we thought if he can’t fly, maybe he can roll over.”

Drawing air through your nose, you let out a forced chuckle. “Well, I certainly have never seen a chicken do either of those things,” you responded, stepping closer to the two boys and kneeling on the ground, “I can’t wait to see the results.” The boys both giggled. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t I go fetch some things from the house, and we can stay another night. That way the two of you will have more time to work on Clucky’s new trick. What do you think?”

Apparently thrilled at the prospect, the boys nodded and shouted their agreement enthusiastically - terrifying the nearby chickens. Luckily, this seemed to have distracted them enough that they didn’t see your face fall as you pulled Ben to you and kissed the top of his head. “I love you, sweetheart,” you murmured into his curls before pulling away. With another deep breath and a forced smile, you looked him in the eyes. “I’ll be back soon.”

You only hoped that would be the truth.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x f!reader #f!reader

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sometimesitrytowritethings · 4 years ago

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Outlaw: Part 2

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: Angst, Swearing, Canon-typical violence, Stalking, Implied future assault, Fear of death

Summary: All you wanted was to be left alone, to forget Arthur Morgan existed entirely. But, damn it, fate still had other plans in mind.

Notes: Trying to post every week. Here you go! This chapter has some dark content in it towards the end. I have triggered it with what I can think of, but if you feel another trigger should be added PLEASE let me know and I am happy to add it.

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It had been a solid two weeks since your last encounter with Arthur, and you had since seen neither hair nor hide of the man or his friends around Valentine. Maybe they had finally moved on to terrorise some other poor livestock town.

If so, good riddance.

He and his friends were not welcome around here as far as you were concerned, especially if they were taking advantage of your neighbors. And, admittedly, you may have still been slightly bitter about your parting with Arthur a few weeks before you had seen him last.

The sting of his words to you on that night still resonated in your mind. “I can't give you the life you deserve, and I shoa as hell can't be the man you deserve.” He was right; you did deserve better than him. You scoffed to yourself, shedding your gloves and putting them into your jacket pockets as you stepped into the crowded building.

As usual for almost any night in Valentine, Smithfield’s Saloon was abustle with dozens of travelling livestock workers, a handful of working women, and a large number of locals who had nothing better to do with their time. The smoky air wrapped itself around you as you hung up your coat, searching for your friends in their normal position at the end of the bar.

That night, Anastasia leaned against the wooden wall, talking with Frank as his hands plucked away at the pianoforte. Margaret must have been hired for the night. You rubbed warmth into your hands and made your way over to your friend, admiring her freshly done hair and new dress.

“Well, don’t you look fresh and lovely this evening?” you chided, reaching her side and flagging down Quentin behind the bar. “Just a beer for now, please,” you nodded at him, before turning back to your friend. “Where did you find this? Surely not in Valentine?”

The two of you laughed lightly, while she modeled the new dress for you. “No, no. Of course not!” she teased, slapping your arm lightly. “There’s a new gentleman in town who is willing to pay for the night… and your secrecy. A real high-society type,” she explained, glancing around the room before moving close to your ear. “I didn’t catch his name, but he did come in with a group of fancy-lookin’ men and someone who looked an awful lot like the pictures in the paper of Leviticus Cornwall.” With a smirk, she pulled away from you and leaned back against the wall. “He brought a lovely set of dresses with him from Saint Denis and said I could have my pick.”

“Oh, really?” you mentioned, making an amused face at your friend. “Next time, you should direct him to me for a bath beforehand. Lord knows, I could use a new dress or two!” you laughed and turned to pick up your beer from the counter as the doors swung open once again.

The sudden blast of cold, outdoor air was followed by loud, jovial laughter from a group of men. Two familiar faces greeted you as they dragged a third, obviously drunk man into the building.

“Com’on lads! Join me!” called the drunken man, jostling his companions. “‘N’ its NO! Nay! Never!” he began. His companions remained silent by his side, rolling their eye. “Ah, you bastards ‘re no fun.”

The two dumped their friend unceremoniously at the empty table in front of the piano and walk over to the bar to order drinks. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Anastasia immediately perk up at their familiar faces. “Well hello again, boys,” she crooned, leaning back to push up her ample cleavage. “I ain’t seen you around here in a while, thought you had abandoned me.” She finished with a small giggle, hiding her face with her hand in fake modesty.

The man you remember as Javier made his way past you upon hearing her voice, obviously ready to play her game. “Oh no, mi amor, we would never leave without saying goodbye to the most beautiful girls in town,” he flirted, eyes roaming over her new dress. Ever the gentlemen, he reached out to place a lingering kiss on her hand.

“Oh, what a charmer!” she teased, slapping his hand lightly away with a smile. “Now let me get you a drink. Quentin!” She called for the man, who was in the midst of serving another group of particularly unruly looking patrons at the end of the bar. Though, you thought nothing of it. Plenty of groups of unscrupulous looking men came through town looking for work, this group was likely nothing different.

The other man, Charles, if you remembered correctly, leaned against the counter next to you, waiting for his drink. “How have you been?” he asked, looking you over.

You were, admittedly, slightly confused. You knew that Arthur was friends with these men, but had assumed that he had kept your… whatever you had had… relatively private. Apparently, you had been wrong. “I’ve been fine, why do you ask?” you responded, forcing a small smile to your face. You did not want to discuss Arthur tonight. Ideally, you would be able to purge the man from your mind entirely.

That was apparently not going to happen.

He grunted slightly, seeming to know that your answer was a lie. “He didn’t tell me anything, you know,” he explained after a short time. “Just noticed he was acting differently. Thought something might have happened.”

You cleared your throat and turned your focus to a knot in the wooden floor. “I’m not sure what…” you stopped yourself for a moment, fully aware that Charles would likely see through your ruse regardless of your acting. “...who you are referring to.”

His scoff was quiet, but you still managed to hear it over the din of the surrounding conversations. There was nothing you wanted more than to end this conversation and go to another part of the bar, but leaving Anastasia when you had just arrived wasn’t ideal. Luckily, the men’s drinks arrived shortly. Charles grabbed them and moved to sit at the table with only a nod in your direction.

Unluckily, Javier invited the two of you to join them.

You immediately opened your mouth to protest, not wanting to inadvertently dwell on the past month by spending time with the men. However, Anastasia didn’t give you a chance to answer, and instead grabbed you by the arm and dragged you to an empty seat. When did she get such a strong grip?

The old chair creaked lightly as you sat between Charles and the other man. He was young, probably a few years younger than yourself, with shocking red hair and a missing tooth. His grin grew wide as he looked over the two of you.

“‘N’ who did you boys bring me? You buy me a nice welcome back present?” he laughed, clapping Javier on the back.

You scoffed and raised an eyebrow at the man - he was three sheets to the wind already.

“Shut up, Sean,” Javier laughed. “Why would we spend more money on you when we already risked our lives to save your ass?”

“Well, I thought you just missed me so much! Life ain’t the same without good ol’ MacGuire ‘round to liven up the party!” he held up his fresh bottle of beer as if to toast himself, and proceeded to immediately down the entire thing. “Especially not with ol’ English walkin’ ‘round with a stick up his arse.”

Javier let out a loud laugh, while Charles chuckled and glanced over to you, gauging your reaction.

You cleared your throat and glanced away, looking for anyone else you knew, and wanting to avoid the upcoming conversation entirely. Across the room, the group of unknown rough-looking men continued to glance at the small posse around your table.

“Sean, this is Anastasia,” Javier proceeded, indicating to the woman by his side and again glancing her up and down flirtatiously. He then introduced you to the drunk man, who seemed to have a revelation upon hearing your name.

“Aha!” he exclaimed, slamming an open hand on the table. “So that’s her, is it?” his eyes roamed over your body as he spoke, a knowing grin on his face before he leaned in to talk directly to you. You could smell the beer and whisky on his breath, as strong as a bottle itself. “Ya know, at first, I thought it was ‘cause ‘ol Dead Eye MacGuire was back in town, ‘n’ the big man was jealous,” he explained, as if you would automatically know what he was talking about.

You did.

If the other two knew Arthur, it would make sense that this man, Sean, would know him as well.

“Then he just didn’t stop walkin’ aroun’ like an ol’ grump, chewin’ everyone out for the littlest shite. Javier and Charles here clued me in, ‘n’ said a beautiful woman in town had broken his poor heart. I s’pose that’d be you?” his grin grew wider at the look on your face.

“Sean…” you hear Charles warn as he stood to order another beer for his friend.

“Hey! ‘M just curious ‘bout what she’s done to get the big man so-” he was immediately cut off by a smack to the back of his head from Javier.

You sighed and toyed with your half-empty beer bottle. You had really only come to see your friends, and since both of them were now occupied, there was no need for you to stay. At least, that’s what you told yourself. Sean and the others seemed friendly enough, but you didn’t particularly want to stay around if this was what the conversation would amount to.

Again, you glanced to the end of the bar, relieved to see that the men from earlier had left. It should be safe enough to walk back then.

Resolute, you downed the last half of your beer and stood from the table. “Well, thank you very much for your time, gentlemen,” you started, glancing at each of them and then to Anastasia, who was mooning over Javier and had her hand precariously placed on his thigh. It was most definitely time to leave. You didn’t want to be stuck with two strangers while your friend sealed the deal. “It’s been lovely, but I need to be getting home. I’ll see you later, Ana?”

“Oh?” she snapped suddenly out of her reverie, and looked at you. “Leavin’ already, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, Ben should be about ready for bed, and he wanted me to read a story to him tonight,” you lied. Ben adored spending time with Ms. Chadwick, who was watching over him, and probably would have been completely fine for the rest of the night. “Duty calls!”

Before the others could get a word in edgewise, you marched over to your coat, pulled it on and were out the door. You adored your friends, but too many times had you been left on your own as they seduced men into the upstairs rooms. Most of the time it was fine, you knew enough people in town to chat with others. But this time, when the conversation was headed directly toward Arthur Morgan, and when Anastasia was about fifteen minutes from making some money, you had no desire to remain.

You buttoned up your coat and pulled on your gloves on the Saloon porch before setting out toward the old farm-turned-boarding house. Luckily it wasn’t all that far, and would take maybe ten minutes of brisk walking to get home.

You were out of the town quickly, past the stables and free of the muddy streets when you first heard them. Several loud, drunken voices trailed behind you. Pausing for only a moment, you could make out what they were saying in the quiet night.

“Yeah, that’s her alright,” came the drunken Irish accent that you recognised from the bar. “Bitch was hanging all over Dutch’s boys. Ain’t even a whore. Seen ‘er with Arthur Morgan the other day.”

You froze in place as their voices drew nearer, unsure of what to do. They had followed you. They had been watching you in the bar and they had followed you home. They had seen you with Charles, Javier and Sean. They had seen you with Arthur and they had fucking followed you home because of it.

Inside you were panicking, but your body wouldn’t allow you to move. You could hear their voices draw nearer, their footsteps rustling the grass as they approached. A burst of laughter reached your ears from all too close for comfort. “Ha! The bitch ‘s waiting for us!” came a drunken voice from only a short distance away. “Colm’ll be happy to have her willingly.”

The sound of their footsteps picked up pace and drew ever nearer. Soon enough you could hear them next to you, you could feel their rancid breath on your neck. “Maybe we oughta have a taste first,” came a hot, hoarse voice from directly next to you. He reached out and dragged a calloused finger along your cheek before it was suddenly and roughly slapped away by one of his companions.

“Dammit Jim, keep yer damn cock in yer pants,” the other man’s tone was more joking than it was scolding. “Ya know damn well Colm’ll want ‘er intact before ‘e squeezes information outta ‘er.” He ended with a loud laugh, and you could hear the sound of his hand clapping on his friend’s shoulder. “She ain’t movin’. Let’s get ‘er outta here, gents.”

At that, you felt a pair of arms wrap around your waist, and your body suddenly came back to life. “NO!” you shrieked, squirming in the man’s arms. Your body surged with adrenaline, your heart pounding as you did your best to kick,punch and scratch your way out of the man’s grasp.

“What the hell?” was his surprised yelp as soon as you had started moving. Somehow, you had managed to connect an elbow with his nose, and he reeled backwards, dropping his hold on you to wipe his blooded face.

You heard the quiet cock of a gun to your right. “Bitch wants to put up a fight then?” the man’s voice was oddly excited, sadistic. “Just how I like ‘em.” Turning, you were met face to face with the barrel of a pistol.

For some reason, you didn’t freeze this time. You were face to face with almost certain death, but this time, your muscles worked with you. As quickly as possible you darted to your left, away from the man with the gun and his two companions. The further away you ran, the less chance they would have of hitting you, you thought. And the smaller the chance of the shot killing you.

Right?

The blast of a gun reached your ears. This was it, you would surely die. They would find your body the next morning, covered in blood and dirt. They would know it was you, and Ben would have yet another parent in the ground.

Another gunshot. And another.

One of these had to have hit. You were far too close for them to miss every single time.

“Shit!” The panicked yell should have been frustrated. He should have been reloading his gun to shoot once again. Or chasing after you with a knife or lasso. By all accounts, the three men should have been able to quickly and easily overtake you.

Instead, your attacker sounded terrified. Almost as if they were being chased by a gang of outlaws. Almost as if they had just been shot by a man trailing them in the dark of the night.

You slowed to a stop at the thought. Someone had helped you. Someone had miraculously stumbled across the scene and saved your life. Hesitantly, you turned to face your savior, hoping that you were right. Hoping that they wouldn’t follow in the footsteps of the men they had just shot at.

The dark made it hard to see exactly what had happened, but in the starlight you could make out four bodies. Two men were slumped on the ground in an unmoving heap. One man was running away, noticeably limping. Finally, you saw one man standing, silhouetted against the light of the distant town, a smoking gun in his hand.

Holding your breath, you found that you still were completely unable to move. You wanted to run, to flee to your home and lay with your son in bed, but your feet were lead on the ground.

You could see the figure, silhouetted against the light of the town, moving towards you. Their movements were slow, careful, like they were calming a spooked horse. Gently, your name cut through the air before the person, your saviour, spoke, “Are you alright? Did they hurt you?”

You recognised the voice. You couldn’t place who was speaking, or even where you knew them from, but you recognised it enough to know that the person wouldn’t hurt you.

They continued making their way towards you, speaking quietly the entire time so that you could gauge their distance. You heard the sound of a gun being holstered mere feet away from you, and focused on his face. Finally, he was close enough to make out his features.

Charles.

Filled with relief, as well as overcome with the sudden drop in adrenaline, you collapsed into his arms as soon as he reached you. “Shit,” you heard his mumble as you breathed deeply, waiting for your sudden dizziness to subside. “Can you hear me?”

The night spun in front of you as you felt your body being led slowly to the damp ground. “Breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth,” Charles instructed, kneeling beside you and holding you up. “Easy, easy. Breathe.”

You followed his instructions, in through your nose, out through your mouth, until the world was no longer spinning. Heart still pounding, you looked over at the man who had saved your life. “Thank you,” you managed, voice trembling.

“It’s fine,” his response was short and honest, as if he was only doing what was right. Now that you were finally able to sit up on your own, he stood beside you and whistled for his horse. “We have to get you out of here.”

Out of here? What was he talking about? Your home was only a few meters away. You would be safe there.

As if reading your mind, he continued, “Those men, one got away, and he knows where you live.” His explanation went right over your head.

You closed your eyes and gripped the grass beneath your hands to steady yourself again. “But there… there were only three of them, why-” your voice was still trembling, your heart still pounding, as you tried to process what had happened, what he was telling you.

Those men, they had attacked you. And for what?

They had mentioned something about Arthur, hadn’t they? But you hadn’t seen Arthur in weeks. Hell, even if you had, why would they care?

“They’re part of a larger gang,” he cut you off, his tone urgent, short, as his horse trotted in your direction. “You can stay with us, just for the night.” Although his responses were short, they were enough. Apparently, the wrong people had just gotten very angry with you.

“I-” you started, pulling yourself shakily to your feet. “But… my house… ” hands shaking, you pointed to the building in the distance. “I just… I need…”

You felt strong hands beneath your shoulders as he hoisted you off the ground. Your legs felt like jelly the moment you stood, and threatened to give way with any movement. “Your house will be fine, but it isn’t safe here tonight,” he explained further, wrapping a hand behind your back to keep you balanced as he led you over to the horse.

The house would be fine, he was right. They would come back and see it was empty, that you weren’t there. They would break in, and find an empty bed and…

“Ben!” the image of your son flashed through your mind like lightning, and you stopped in your tracks, legs finally willing to work once more. “No, no, we can’t leave without Ben.” Finally, your voice was no longer wavering. You stood and looked at the man to your side, resolute. “I will come with you, but not without my son.”

Charles hesitated for only a second before nodding. “I understand.”

The house wasn’t all that far away, so the two of you jogged the last few meters, leading the horse behind you. Mentally, you made a list of things that you should grab for the evening: blankets, water, a few tins of food, just in case. Ben would want his toy, and probably his drawing, but those could easily be packed away in a satchel. How would the three of you fit on a horse together?

Ben was only five, and still rather small, but two adults and a child on this poor horse seemed a bit excessive.

But Mrs. Chadwick had a horse. A sturdy old Shire named Buttercup who was more of a packhorse than anything, but it would have to do. You would need to leave a note for your landlady so that she didn’t assume she had been robbed.

Finally, you reached the door to the house, careful of the creaking stairs as you entered. The door swung open with a groan, and then everything was quiet. There were only the sounds of the rustling leaves outside and your heart pounding in your ears. Quickly, quietly, you gestured for Charles to stay and guard the door as you darted upstairs to your rented room.

A large, old bag had been stuffed into your meager wardrobe, under several pairs of boots, and you worked to get it out. Quickly, you put Ben’s winter jacket and a pair of gloves to the side and stuffed a blanket in the bag. Only one would fit, but it would have to do. From your bedside table, you gathered Ben’s treasured drawing of a horse, a few of your valuables that you didn’t want stolen, a photograph of yourself and Andrew, and scribbled a note for Ms. Chadwick.

From under the bed, you pried up a floorboard and pulled out a small stack of cash, what was leftover from the money refused by the Downes family, and pocketed it. Finally, from the window you grabbed Ben’s toy horse, which he had once again set out to look out for you.

“Ben,” you whispered, the bag slung over your shoulder and his horse in your hand. “Ben, sweetheart,” you rocked his shoulder gently, and then combed lightly through his hair as he woke. “Come on, sweetheart, we need to go. I’ve got your boots and jacket ready.”

Groggy, he looked up at you and rubbed his eyes. “Go?” he mumbled, his voice still heavy with sleep. “Where are we going, Mama?” Slowly, you coaxed him into a sitting position and handed him his toy.

“Do you remember in Otis Miller, how they camp out under the stars?” you asked, turning him to face the edge of the bed and gathering his day clothes from a nearby chair. He nodded, as you proceeded to get him dressed. “Well, we will be doing that tonight, how does that sound?”

He nodded sleepily, rubbing his eyes again as you tried to shove his feet into his boots. “Sounds fun, I guess,” was his murmured response. He clutched his toy horse to his chest and stood, allowing you to pull on his coat.

“Well, we need to hurry or we will miss all of the lovely stars!” you told him, trying your best to sound calm.

It wasn’t working.

“Alright, Mama,” he mumbled, wobbling on his feet, still half asleep.

It would be better this way, you told yourself. He wouldn’t be awake to protest, and he could fall asleep on the back of the horse and you can just carry him to… well, to wherever you would sleep that night.

“Great, thank you sweetheart,” you responded, readjusting the bag on your shoulder and hoisting Ben up to your hip. He really was getting far too big to carry like this, but there wasn’t time for him to walk.

You moved out the door as fast as you could, calling quietly for Charles when you reached the top of the stairs. “Would you mind carrying him to the horse?” Charles nodded in agreement and met you at the top of the stairs, reaching out for your son. “Alright, Ben, this is my friend Charles, he’s going to carry you to the horse, alright?”

Ben looked apprehensive, but allowed himself to be picked up by the stranger. “Alright, I’ll run to the barn and get Buttercup and meet you out front,” you said, brushing past the two and down the stairs.

Charles followed you, Ben clinging to his shoulders, until you had all gathered outside of the house. You dropped your bag unceremoniously beside the horse, and dashed to the barn to saddle Buttercup. Keeping yourself calm, so as not to spook the poor horse, you pulled a worn saddle from off a hook on the wall, and got to work. Luckily, although old and weary, Buttercup did not spook easily anymore, and stayed quiet through the entire process.

Only a few minutes later, you emerged from the barn, horse reigns in hand.

“We’re going to take Buttercup with us, Mama?” Ben asked through a yawn from where he was standing next to Charles. You could see that Charles had graciously strapped your bag to the back of the horse, and would be ready to ride out as soon as Ben was mounted.

“Yes, sweetheart, just for a little while” you said, reaching him and giving his hair a ruffle. “I left Ms. Chadwick a note though, it will be ok.” Once the horse had stilled, you turned to mount it, and held out your arms for Ben.

Charles lifted the boy with ease, settling him into the space in front of you. He then mounted his own horse, and you were off. The chill in the wind was only made worse as you cantered past the lights of Valentine, making sure to avoid the spot where you knew two bodies would be plainly visible come morning. You could feel Ben start to shake from the cold beneath you, and hugged him tighter to your chest. “Just duck your head down, sweetheart, we won’t be riding long. I promise.”

Thankfully, your promise held true. Within twenty minutes, you reached a small clearing on what you had always known as Horseshoe Overlook. You slowed your horse as you neared, jumping slgihtly at the call of “Who’s there?” from the trees, and the subsequent anser from Charles.

“Charles, and I brought a friend.”

You hitched your horse next to Charles on a few makeshift hitching posts on the outskirts of a hastily-built camp. What had once been an empty location, perfect for summer picnics and romantic dates, now housed a dozen tents and wagons. They were set up in a circle, surrounding a few tables and one large, ornate tent.

A few people sat by the fire, glancing momentarily in your direction before going back to their previous conversation. Javier, you saw, was playing guitar; a slow, sad melody in Spanish. A man with a familiar mop of red hair was bent over the table, fast asleep, beer still in hand.

You followed Charles, who had picked up a now sleeping Ben from your horse and was carrying him towards a wagon on the edge of camp. Luckily, no one met you on the path, and there was no need to explain anything to any strangers.

Upon reaching the wagon, Charles laid Ben on a small cot, and covered him gently with a blanket. “The two of you can stay here for the night,” he explained as you looked around the small space. A couple of tables, a small chest, a few pictures and trinkets here and there. It was probably cozier than some of the other tents you had seen, but it still wasn’t much.

Charles made his way out from under the small awning, and unravelled two canvas flaps to offer a semblance of privacy. “It’s Arthur’s,” he said finally, seeing you gazing at a photo of three men pinned to the side of the wagon. “He won’t mind.”

You swallowed and brushed your fingers across some of the trinkets. A horseshoe, a flower, a photo of a woman… Mary? “Are you sure?” you asked, looking over to your son. He was fast asleep, out like a light. “We didn’t… well, we didn’t exactly part on the best of terms.”

After searching your face for further clues, Charles nodded. “It’ll be fine,” he said, trying to reassure you.

“And… where is he now? Is he coming back tonight?”

With a low chuckle, Charles shook his head. “Probably not. He usually likes to camp out for a day or two on hunting trips,” he told you. “Should be back tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

You knelt next to the cot and brushed your fingers through your son’s hair. Even if Arthur did come back that night, or the next morning, and saw you there, this was safer. Running the risk of facing the friends of those men wasn’t worth avoiding Arthur. “Alright,” you breathed, looking up at Charles again. He was standing just inside the awning, ready to head to his own tent, you supposed. “... Thank you, Charles.”

He nodded again, looking over the two of you with a small smile. “You’re welcome,” he replied, stepping back out of the small space. “My tent is across the camp, over by the fire if you need anything.” Without another word, he left, leaving the two of you alone in the dark. Leaving you alone, surrounded by memories of the one man you were trying your best to forget.

#rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x f!reader #f!reader #red dead redemption 2

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sometimesitrytowritethings · 4 years ago

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Hey Artists!

Hey artists, heeeeey!

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sometimesitrytowritethings · 4 years ago

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Outlaw: Part 1

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: Angst, Swearing, Canon-typical violence

Summary: All you wanted was to be left alone, to forget Arthur Morgan existed entirely. But, damn it, fate still had other plans in mind.

Notes: Only a little later than October. Sorry for the delay and I hope you enjoy!

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The sun warmed your face as you walked, gravel crunching beneath your worn boots. The sounds of your son’s laughter reached your ears, fluffy white clouds dotted the pale blue sky, birds sang happily in the distance. The air was crisp and cool despite the end of Spring drawing near, and you could faintly see your breath crystalise in front of you as you walked. Everything was peaceful, calm, serene.

Everything betrayed the solemn mood that overwhelmed you.

A few days ago, you had received a brief letter from your old friend, Edith Downes. She had written about how long it had been since you had seen each other, and had described the unfortunate deterioration of her husband’s health. He would love to see the two of you, she had written, before he cannot see any longer.

Immediately, you had been overwhelmed with guilt. You had, of course, known that Thomas Downes was ill, having been diagnosed with Tuberculosis by Dr. Calloway the previous year. But you had never assumed he was faring that badly. Eventually, you had unfortunately put your relationship with the family on the back burner as you were faced with a plethora of distractions.

Specifically, a certain outlaw who refused to leave your mind (despite cutting ties with him almost a month prior).

Completely unaware of the reason behind the visit, Ben galloped excitedly in front of you, his curls blowing in the breeze. He was busy picking wildflowers as he ran from side to side on the dirt road to create a bouquet for your family friends. You kept your eye on him, but, having walked this path for years now, there was little need. The two of you knew Valentine like the back of your hands.

You had a small shopping bag slung over your shoulders and your hands in your pockets as you walked. Any passerby would presume this was only to keep out the chill, unaware of the not-insignificant sum of money in your pocket that you were clutching for dear life.

After a short walk, Ben’s laughter echoing in your ears the entire time, you arrived at your destination. You felt Ben’s tiny hand clasp yours as he dragged you told the old Downes ranch in excitement. Smiling at the boy, you let yourself be pulled forward.

It had been years since the farmhouse was in its best condition. The once freshly cut wood from Strawberry had now aged, becoming a dark, weathered brown. Shingles were missing from the molding roof, and you could recall not too long ago when a portion in the middle had fallen in during a particularly bad thunderstorm. The fields, once full of grain and cattle, had shrunk to a small garden and a few dilapidated pens in front of the barn. Once upon a time, the sounds of workers, coming to look for jobs during the Spring planting season, would have filled your ears.

Now there was just quiet.

As you drew closer to the front steps of the house, you heard a hacking cough coming from a penned in garden to your right. Glancing over, you noticed Thomas Downes himself, toiling away at the small plot of land they still were managing to work. He seemed to notice you as well and held up a friendly wave before a bout of coughing overcame him again.

Ben waved gleefully and shouted, “Hi Uncle Thomas!” before bounding up the stairs to the front door, his cheerful smile never leaving his face. Not wanting to worry your son, you forced a smile and waved as you followed him up the creaky stairs. As you turned away, you noticed the distinct dark red tint that had stained the man’s handkerchief before it was quickly shoved back into his pocket.

Ben knocked excitedly on the door, eager to see the friends who were as good as family.

With a loud groan, the weathered door opened, revealing the bittersweet smile of Edith Downes. “Well isn’t this a lovely surprise!” she grinned, putting her hands on her hips and looking down at your son, who was nearly bursting at the seams with excitement. “Now, what are you doing here, little Ben?”

He bounced on his heels, ready to answer immediately. “Mama and me wanted to come visit you. We brought biscuits!,” he answered, before holding out a mangled bouquet of wildflowers in his dirt-covered hands. You could still spot some roots at the bottom of the stems. “And I picked you some flowers!”

“Well, aren’t these lovely?” Edith said, taking the small bouquet from Ben’s outstretched hand with a smile. “Let me just fetch a vase for them, why don’t the two of you come in?” She bustled inside, followed quickly by your son, and searched for a makeshift vase in their meagre kitchen. Finally, she chose an empty can of beans, filled it with some water from a pitcher and set the flowers delicately inside.

“Well, that will have to do, I suppose,” you heard her murmur before she made her way back over to the two of you. “Now, now, no need to just stand there, make yourselves at home. Would you like some coffee?”

You smiled at the woman, ever grateful for her welcoming nature. “Thank you, Edith, that would be lovely,” you said as you fiddled with the roll of cash in your pocket, hesitant to shrug your coat from your shoulders just yet. “Ben, why don’t you go see if Archie is outside? I’m sure he’d be excited to see you.”

For as long as you could remember, Ben had practically idolised Archie. The older boy had previously loved spending time with your son, and had frequently stopped by to watch over him while you were at work. However, those visits had recently become less and less common, with his father’s illness and the house in a constant state of disrepair. You knew Ben would be excited to see his friend once again.

He nodded vigorously and darted out the back door. “Save some biscuits for me, please!” you heard before it slammed behind him.

Now alone with your old friend, who was currently busy preparing coffee for the both of you, you pulled the small roll of cash from your coat pocket and tucked it into your belt. Without a word, you hung your coat on one of the hooks next to the door. It was a rather awkward situation, and you knew that the Downes’s were stubbornly independent, but you were determined to help out the family any way you could. Even if it was unsolicited.

The old wooden chair gave a slight groan as you sat and proceeded to drum your fingers on the table. A low fire warmed the room, but you could still feel the outdoor chill from the cracks in the walls and the roof. Edith had cleaned the place from top to bottom, as always. Not a speck of dust was to be found anywhere. The curtains were open to let in as much light as possible, but, although the place was clean and bathed in sunlight, the once welcoming home still felt somehow cold and lonely.

Soon enough, the smell of coffee enveloped the room, and Edith came back to the table with two steaming cups. You smiled at her and opened the tin of biscuits for the both of you, setting two aside for your son, just in case.

“Thank you so much, Edith.” The coffee was warm and only slightly bitter, and paired nicely with the sweetness of the shortbread. No matter what was happening in your life, you could always count on a cup of coffee to help lift your spirits. “How have the three of you been, lately. It seems like it’s been so long since I’ve seen you in town.”

She took a sip from her cup as well, and as she did so, you noticed that her coffee looked significantly lighter, more watered-down, than what she had given you. “Yes, well, Thomas had been going occasionally to collect money for The Charity, but since…” she paused mid-sentence and took another sip, as if contemplating how much she should tell you. “Well, I’ll be honest with you, dearie. Thomas hasn’t been doing very well lately, and we prefer it if he stays near us as much as possible.”

Your heart sank. You knew this feeling all too well. Images of Andrew, your late husband flashed through your mind. His hacking cough, collapsing into bed in the evenings, taking a vial of what had turned out to be poisoned medicine. It had been the worst time of your life, and you hated that one of the people who had helped you get through it was now experiencing the same thing.

“I am so incredibly sorry, Edith,” you told her, setting your cup down and reaching across the table for her hand. “I do hope that things start to look up for him. Dr. Calloway mentioned-”

“Oh, we know what Dr. Calloway has said, dear,” she interrupted, taking your hand in hers and giving it a squeeze. “But, you know Thomas. He won’t stop toiling for a minute, even for his own good.”

You nodded, a lump forming in your throat. You wanted to cry. You wanted to let the tears loose and begin mourning for the life of a man who was not yet dead. He was outside, tending to the garden and essentially digging his own grave, all so his family could have a better life once he was gone. “I know, Edith, I know,” you managed, holding back the tears for the time being. “And of course we are here to help out whenever you need. You three were a blessing after Andrew…”

Ms. Downes patted your hand again and set it gently on the table with a weary smile. “Oh, think nothing of it, dearie,” was her response. You knew this had been coming. The Downes family members were some of the most loving and helpful people you had had the joy to meet, but were never ones to take any help for themselves. “You two are family, that’s all there is to it. And families help each other out in times of need.”

“Exactly,” you began, hoping to say your piece before she said no. You pulled the roll of bills from your waistband and set it on the table for her. “Which is why-”

She shook her head and put her hand on top of yours before you could pull away from the money. “No, no,” she interrupted, firmly. “Don’t you even think of giving me that money, missy. You have a son to take care of. Food to buy. A home to save up for. I will not let you waste that on us.”

You let out an exasperated chuckle. This was so incredibly in-character for Edith. “It’s hardly a waste, Edith. And like you said, family-”

“I know, I know,” she said, pushing both your hand and the roll of cash back towards you. “But we will get by, don’t you worry.” Her sad smile in that moment told you that even she did not believe her own words. “You just keep bringing that boy by to visit, you hear? We don’t see the two of you nearly enough these days.”

Before you had a chance to respond, the sound of a scuffle reached your ears. You heard Thomas’s name called, as well as several other, incoherent shouts.

You nearly knocked your chair over as you stood, pulling your coat from the hook, stashing the wad of cash in your pocket, and dashing to the door with Edith on your heels. As soon as you were outside, the light of the Springtime sun momentarily blinding, you searched frantically for Ben. The last thing you wanted was for him to be caught up in whatever was going on.

Luckily, you spotted him near the corner of the house, protected from the sight by Archie. You would have to thank him later.

“Mr. Downes!” Your ears perked up at the sound of your friend’s name, and the familiar voice. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t. “You owe me money.” Turning in the direction of the noise, your heart immediately dropped.

In front of Thomas, walking toward him with a sort of menacing, intimidating attitude that you had not seen on the man before, was Arthur Morgan. There was no mistaking it. Between the familiar worn, black hat, the lilt of his voice, his light brown hair, there was no one else it could have been.

“Oh, no…. I…” Thomas started as Arthur drew nearer, brandishing the rake he had been using in the fields in front of him. “I’m...You won’t find anything on this property.” With a sudden burst of unrecommended bravery, he swung the rake as hard as he could at the man in front of him.

It didn’t deter Arthur in the slightest.

In fact, he kept moving forward, coming dangerously close to the ill man and grabbing him by the collar. “Really? Threaten me, would you?” he growled, and your world stilled as he balled his hand into a fist and punched Thomas in the face.

In his state, it didn’t take much for Thomas to be sent to the ground. He hit the dirt with a soft thud, and held out his hand to protect himself. “Please, please no,” was his desperate plea, before he was hoisted up again by the larger man.

Arthur shoved him against the fence, leaning in menacingly close to his face. “You borrowed money from my business partner Herr Strauss,” he started, punctuating the sentence with a few shakes to Thomas’s collar, who was now holding in a fit of coughs. “You owe him. You took the money. He wants it back. What’s not to understand?”

By the end of the sentence, Arthur had moved himself mere inches away from the ill man’s face. From the face of death.

Thomas didn’t respond, couldn’t respond. His only action was a loud, hacking cough that splattered bloody spittle across Arthur’s jaw.

That was enough to make Arthur drop his collar in disgust. He wiped some of the spit from his face with his hands, but you could still see the faint drops of red on his cheek. “Where’s our money?” he continued, his voice an irritated growl.

“I don’t have it,” Thomas choked in response. He was still leaning against the fence, unable to stand for much longer.

“Sell your place,” Arthur reasoned, gesturing to the dilapidated house where you stood, frozen in shock. Although he seemed to not have noticed you, his glance in your direction was more than enough to bring you out of your state. You had to do something. You had to stop him before he killed the man.

“We already owe more than it’s worth,” Thomas answered, looking solemnly at the ground. You held in your gasp, you had known their situation was bad, but had never assumed it was that dire. And, despite that, here was Arthur, trying to bully Thomas out of what little he did have?

Arthur was clearly getting even more irritated with each passing moment. “Then sell your wife, or your family, or something. We ain’t your idea of charity. Is that clear?” If he weren’t so far away, you would have slapped him then and there. With a sudden resolute determination, you began to make your way towards the two men.

“ARTHUR MORGAN!,” you yelled, storming over to the men with fury in your eyes. You felt like screaming, like crying. This man, the former stranger who had treated you and your son with such kindness, was roughing up one of your oldest friends for the sake of a few dollars. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Upon hearing your voice, Arthur turned to you, shocked, but still holding up Mr. Downes by his shirt collar. Your name tumbled from his lips in surprise. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” you seethed, entering the small paddock and yanking Arthur’s hand away from the frail man with more strength than you thought you had in you. “Again, what the hell do you think you are doing?” You let go of your vice grip on Arthur’s arm as soon as he had dropped Mr. Downes’s collar, wiping it on your skirt. It felt, somehow, dirty to touch him, to be near him like this. But despite that, you couldn’t contain yourself.

A loud crack echoed across the otherwise silent field as your hand connected with Arthur’s face. It was unlikely to have actually hurt him, but maybe you would have at least wounded his pride. “Can’t you see that he’s ill?” you hissed, unable to hide your pure contempt for the man in front of you.

Arthur staggered backwards, obviously shocked at your actions, and with a sigh, brought his hand up to the reddening spot on his face. He said your name quietly, regretfully, and took another step back, watching Mr. Downes sink to the ground in front of him. “He owes my business partner money,” he explained, turning to look you in the eyes. You held his gaze with a fiery anger that you had never felt before. “‘N’ he-”

“Money?” you hissed. He didn’t deserve to try to explain himself further. “This is about money?” You jerked your hand towards Mr. Downes, crumpled on the dirt, trying to steady his breathing through hacking coughs. “They are about damn destitute, Arthur. And you… you are going to take what little they have left away from them?” Tears welled up in your eyes from frustration, from disgust, from pure, unadulterated disappointment in the man you had once trusted. To think, you had once believed him to be a good, honest, caring man. Even once you had found out he was an outlaw, running on the fringes of society, you would have never assumed he would have the sheer audacity to take from the most vulnerable people you knew.

“He can’t just take out a loan and not repay it!” he growled, your name punctuating the end of the sentence. What little regret that had laced his voice earlier was replaced by frustration. “I know it ain’t easy for ‘em right now, but debts gotta be paid.”

How could he?

How could he be so uncaring?

So inhumane?

How could he see that the man in front of him was dying and still not care? Body shaking, you looked briefly at Mr. Downes, now coughing up blood into a handkerchief on the ground, and then back to Arthur. “How much do they owe?” you demanded. You fished into your coat pocket, where you had stashed a small roll of one- and five- dollar bills that you had originally intended to gift to your longtime friend, and started counting.

Sudden shouts of protest came from the direction of Edith and Archie, followed by a short grunt from Thomas as he tried to stand. You held your hand out to stop him before focusing again on the small stack of bills.

“You know I can’t let you do that,” Arthur sighed, pulling his hat from his head and running his hands through his hair, as if this was some moral quandary for him. You knew it wasn’t. He needed money and you had some, so why did it matter who it came from?

“How. Much. Do. They. Owe?” you repeated, each word punctuated with acidic hatred for the man in front of you. You would not back down. You would not stand here and let the family that had helped you so much in your time of need be taken advantage of.

Arthur opened his mouth to protest again, and you cut him off, repeating the question once more. You had never been this angry in your life. You were seeing red. You wanted to vomit.

With a final groan and pass of his hand through his hair, he answered you. “Thirty dollars,” he murmured, turning to look away from you.

Thirty dollars.

Thirty fucking dollars.

That was it? Arthur Morgan was about to kill a man over thirty goddamn dollars?!

You counted out thirty dollars and shoved

“Here,” you snapped, resolutely, pushing the loose cash into his chest. “Thirty dollars.” He sighed again, tilting his head to look toward the small, dilapidated farmhouse to his left. You could almost see the gears turning in his head, and the fact that it was such a quandary to accept the money from anyone but the Downes told you all you needed to know. This was never about money. To whoever Arthur was working for, this was about taking advantage of desperate people. This was about power.

It made you sick.

After the longest few seconds of your life, Arthur reached up to take the money from your hand, his calloused fingers lightly brushing yours. Once the cash was in his hand, you pulled away from him, as if the touch itself had shocked you. Shaking your head, you stuffed the little excess cash back into your jacket pocket, nearly ripping a seam.

“Leave, Arthur. I never want to see your face again.”

#rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x f!reader #f!reader

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