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coltermorning · 21 days ago

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A Standing Offer Pt. 1 (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: Your work as an exotic dancer introduces you to John, Javier, and Arthur. You are aggravated to realize that you’re attracted to Arthur, knowing your work prevents you from acting on your feelings outside of the club’s walls.

Author’s Notes: This is a modern au. There are vague descriptions of reader working as an exotic dancer as well as a minor car accident in this chapter. No injuries or anything of the sort. This is part one of three. Enjoy :)

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, eventual smut, car accident

AO3 Link

A Standing Offer

Word count: 5199

Part One

It had only been a week, and already you were cursing at the traffic.

After moving for the third time, you were determined to like it here. It was a small city, easy to remain anonymous in and blend into the crowds. In your line of work, that wasn’t just a perk, it was a necessity. But even though you liked your new job and the people that came with it, the traffic to get to it was already a headache. A motherfucking headache.

Some asshole had just cut you off in a construction zone, and the string of expletives that spewed out of your mouth as you laid on the horn were inevitable. You couldn’t afford to have a bashed in car. Or worse, a bashed in head or body when your job relied on said body.

You soon reached your exit and put your blinker on with unnecessary force, still fuming when you got off the busy highway. You would have to ask one of the girls about a better route. Tonight.

The club was lit up with its usual deep red neon when you pulled into the lot, the music booming out of its doors every time they swung open. Which was often, considering it was prime time on a Saturday night. That’s what the girls here called it. “Prime time!” Ally had shrieked over the loud music on your first night when she saw you going wide-eyed at how many patrons poured in. It wasn’t like you were surprised by the steady number. This was the biggest city you’d ever worked in, though still on the small side. No, it was just that it had been a Monday night. Mondays were notoriously slow everywhere else. But, you guessed, not here. And that meant more money in your pocket anyway, so who the hell were you to complain?

You shut off your car and went inside, passing Harry on your way in with a smile and a wave. Harry was huge. Harry was every bit six and a half feet and just as wide—the perfect man to work the door. And you liked him too, which was saying something. Not everyone in these clubs was on your side. Harry, though, had been friendly from the start, and not overly friendly either—another good distinction. He gave you a nod and went back to keeping an eye on the patrons when he was quickly drowned out by the lighting and loud music pouring through the open doors.

The Rouge, this place was called. And it every bit fit the bill. The red neon outside was matched with the same deep red on the inside, the dim lighting making everything glow the same color as the name implied. And all the girls wore some variation of red from bright to blood. That is, excepting the frontrunner for the night who usually wore some kind of silver or gold. So far, this had been a girl named Madison you’d learned, because Madison could dance unlike anyone you’d ever seen. It was her that had been on stage when you came in for the job opening, and it was her who convinced you this was a place worthy of your time. Better than worthy. Maybe she could teach you a few things in the coming months. It would certainly make all the damn traffic worth it.

“Ruby!” you heard over the pounding music and turned to the sound of your stage name. You all had some play on a red name, from Scarlett to sweet, shy Rose. But it was easy to tell once you got to know the not-so-innocent Rose, the names were all for show.

You smiled and waded through the growing crowd to meet Ally—Carmine.

“You’re early!” she shouted, already taking your hand and leading you to the back rooms to get ready.

“Yeah, no thanks to the traffic,” you grumbled, and she tilted her head back and let out a laugh that you knew would draw attention from the surrounding patrons. She too was very good at her job.

“People are shit drivers here. You get used to it,” she assured you.

You were about to ask about another way to the club that didn’t involve the highway when a loud noise and a rasping laugh drew your eyes. It came from a booth with three men, one drunk out of his mind enough to have accidentally tipped over the table before slamming it back down on its feet. He’d spilled one of the other’s beer straight in his friend’s lap.

“Get a hold of yourself, Marston,” the third man snapped at him, looking less than happy to be here in the first place while the one with the beer on him was busy cursing just like you had earlier. The drunk one just laughed.

Men. The sight almost made you smile.

Ally pulled you into the dressing rooms past another bouncer, this one Misha. Misha wasn’t as friendly as Harry—never said a word, in fact—but you weren’t completely convinced he knew a lot of English. It didn’t matter much to you so long as he manned that door, which he always did. His icy stare was enough to ward off any idiot who got close enough anyway.

Passing him by, the lighting and music immediately changed. The dressing rooms were bright with good lighting for makeup, and Madison played a song over her electric purple speaker that she seemed to have had on repeat since you started working here. She sang along in her chair as she touched up her makeup. Ally led you to her own chair right beside her, as she was already ready, and sat you down in it.

“What were we thinking tonight?” she asked, examining you in the mirror.

“Same as Thursday?” you suggested, loving the smoky look you’d had then.

Janiyah sauntered up behind you with a smirk. “I think it’s time for the Ruby Red look.”

You’d heard of this—apparently each girl, or stage presence, had a signature look. The last Ruby they’d had to let go had one that was a showstopper. Or so you’d heard.

“So soon?” you said on a laugh. But Ally was already squealing with excitement and getting her brushes ready.

Janiyah gave you a wink. “Thank me later.” She turned to head out the side door, her signature introductory music beginning to play outside over the club speakers.

“Oh, you’ll love it,” Ally said, turning to you ready to begin. This was a huge perk of this place, and you hadn’t even known about it when taking the job. You had done your own makeup in the past, but Ally had taken you under her wing and done it for you every night since you’d started. To get a feel for the look, she’d said, but you knew she enjoyed doing it as much as you did getting pampered. It probably wouldn’t last forever, but you delighted in it while you could.

Within an hour, it was Ally’s turn to go dance, and she left you looking perfect and without another thing to do other than get dressed—the upside to arriving early. Perfect was somehow an understatement. The Ruby Red look was devastating. Simple yet lethal with a red lip so distracting it left even you smiling.

You admired yourself long enough for Madison to nag you about it before finally going over to get dressed. You had a range of red to choose from and went for an outfit you hadn’t worn yet—one you had a feeling would be complimentary to the look of your makeup and hair. Very. And once you slipped it on, you knew you were right—you looked hot as fuck.

Madison whistled at you, making you laugh.

“You think?”

“Definitely,” she said, going back to her eyeliner. “Mark my words, you’re making twice what you normally do tonight.”

That would be insane, but a girl could dream.

With nothing left to do but wait for your turn on stage, you took to your phone and scrolled mindlessly, bobbing your head to Madison’s music. And before long, you were up. You stood with the usual jitters that came with a new job and wanting to do well, shaking them off.

“Go kill it, Ruby,” Madison teased.

“Always,” you shot back before bouncing out of the room on the balls of your feet, taking the door that would lead you to the back of the main stage.

Upon arriving, you did a few stretches before your song began to play and Keith—the club owner and announcer—introduced you over the speakers. Time to shine.

Dancing had always been as natural to you as breathing. You had a tendency to get lost in the music and the movement, lost in the way the body naturally meshed the two together. Tonight was no different. Especially with the way you looked, the way you were dressed, the low, daunting song—each movement was slow and deliberate. And you were soon drawing patrons over left and right, a few drunk and whistling at you, a few staring hard-eyed from their booths. It wasn’t difficult to tell this was already your best night yet.

Three songs in, and you felt the familiar soreness from working your body along the pole. You welcomed it as you always did, proud of it. It meant you were doing something right at least. As did the few men standing close stage-side, all vying for your attention. One happened to be the drunk guy from earlier, the one who had spilled beer on his friend. He was waving bills at you with a thoughtless smile plastered on his face. You recognized that buzzed happiness and chose to go over to him, as the other two were eyeing you much too seriously for your liking.

“Hi,” you drawled, still dancing slowly as you neared him.

“Hey there,” he answered, his grin growing.

“What’s your name?”

You spun around inch by inch as he answered, knowing the cardinal rule when dancing like this—keep the show going lest the other patrons lose interest.

“John.”

How fitting for the simple-minded man. But he did have some very interesting scars across his face that made him handsome in a rugged sort of way.

“Mind if I dance for you, John?”

“Not at all, Ruby,” he said, his voice so grating you couldn’t tell if he naturally talked like that or if he was trying to be heard over the music.

You kept on, showering him with attention, flashing your eyes at him as you dropped low. That fat grin on his face remained as he tossed money onto the stage.

“Marston,” you heard, a cutting voice from behind him drawing your attention. His friend from before, the one without beer on his lap, walked up and yanked his arm around. “What the hell did I tell you?”

You were good at your job—John never took his eyes off you. But, you realized, your own gaze was stalling on the newcomer. He brought ruggedly handsome to a whole new meaning in the low red light.

“Javier went to clean himself up. I figured a dance from Ruby here wouldn’t hurt,” John said, pointing to you, still with that smile.

“‘Course you did,” his friend said, turning to you. “Miss, excuse us.” He pulled on John’s arm to take him back to the table he had escaped from, only John didn’t want to go.

“Get off me,” he snapped, shrugging off his friend’s grasp. Here we go, you thought, sticking money in the band of your skimpy clothing before rising back to your full height, dancing back to center stage. You didn’t want any part of a fight.

Soon, the newcomer got John under control enough to drag him back to their booth against the wall. You could see Misha eyeing them but staying put. They weren’t causing too much trouble. Yet.

After a few more songs, you took your leave and stepped into the crowd, showing attention to the two men who had eyed you stage-side earlier. You didn’t stay long with either, needing to work the crowd to keep up the steady flow of money you were receiving. It was remarkable—what Madison had said was true. You were making hand over fist compared to the first few nights. You couldn’t tell if it was the larger crowd or your scandalous look, but either way, you were instilled with more confidence with every step deeper into the crowd. And finally, you happened upon the right side of the room and on a certain table that made a genuine smile turn your lips.

“Shut up, she’s- Ruby!” said John with that goofy grin back in place.

“Hello, boys.” All three of them sat back and admired you. The one they’d called Javier seemed to have forgotten all about the beer on his clothes, too busy eyeing you. But you couldn’t stop your gaze from lingering longer than necessary on the one you didn’t know the name of. God, he was handsome. Especially with his attention on you instead of his friends.

“Ruby,” John repeated, drunk out of his mind. “How about a little dance?”

That drew his friend’s attention. He scoffed. “If Abigail could see you now-”

“Abigail ain’t here,” John spat. He brought his attention back to you. “Sorry about him. Where were we?”

“Trouble in paradise?” you teased, tilting your head to the side in a way you knew notoriously drew gazes.

“Just a bastard that don’t know not to stick his nose where it don’t belong,” John answered, shooting the other man a glare.

“She’ll kill you. You know she will,” the man answered. “Blame me all you want to, but I ain’t the problem and you know it.”

Lovely. The last thing you needed was to get between a man and his woman. With this, you began your retreat.

“Well, as riveting as that sounds, I have rounds to make.”

“Going so soon?” Javier asked, stopping you from turning away completely.

“Leave the woman be,” the stranger said. “Surprised the sight of you two ain’t run her off already.”

That made you stand your ground. You crossed your arms and faced him down. “And what makes you the expert?”

You threw him a cutting smile as his friends whooped and laughed at him. He shook his head with lowered eyes, but his smile gave him away as embarrassed all the same.

“What, no quip for me?” you pushed.

“No, no quip for you,” he said, sitting back and slinging an ankle over a knee.

“Hm. Shame.” And, even though it would make you an idiot and you wouldn’t have said it without that attractive smirk of his, “How about a dance then?”

His smile turned shy. “Ah, no,” he said, motioning to the other two. “This is their gig. Best you choose one of them.”

The others both perked up at that, but your gaze went cutting back to the stranger. “What brings you here, then?”

The man scoffed. “Babysitting.”

That brought a curse from Javier and a drunken, “Hey!” from John.

But you were smiling all the same, knowing you could at least get your money’s worth now. Maybe money and then some if you got your hooks in the stranger well enough.

“That’s too bad,” you said, throwing him a smirk as you stepped forward and grabbed Javier’s shirt, pulling him to his feet to follow you. “No one likes a babysitter.” And, as you walked away dragging the dopey-eyed Javier behind you, you leveled the stranger with a look you knew would hold his attention. And it did. He watched you until you finally managed to tear your eyes from him. Goddamn handsome patrons. Always the most dangerous ones.

You took Javier back for a private dance, going through the ropes instead of showing him any genuine attention. Your mind was on the floor, on the nameless man.

“You boys come here often?” you asked him while you danced, making sure to stay just out of his grasp.

“Me and John, yeah. Arthur’s usually too much of a pussy to come around.”

You let out a laugh, noting his name. “His loss,” you teased.

“It sure is,” Javier answered, reaching for your hips again. You turned instead, putting your back to him as you danced, keeping away from his hands. Men were always so grabby in these rooms, much more confident than the floor patrons. That is, if they weren’t out of their minds drunk. You were willing to bet if you’d given John a dance, he wouldn’t have given a fuck about touching you in front of other people. But that didn’t matter now. This was all a spur-of-the-moment ruse, and one you weren’t particularly proud of.

“You’re new,” Javier said, pulling you from your thoughts.

You turned and flashed him a smile, teasing with how low you dropped just above his lap. “How sweet of you to notice.”

“Like I said, we’re here enough.”

That wasn’t exactly something to be proud of, you thought, but you didn’t say a word.

Javier leaned back against the plush seat cushions, admiring you. “And you’re definitely the hotter Ruby.”

You let a genuine blush cross your face. Nothing like the feeling of your inflated ego, brought out by these good-for-nothing men. You didn’t care who the compliment came from. It felt good all the same to hear it.

“You’re too kind, Javier.” You let his name drop from your lips like slow-poured honey. He noticed, his eyes flashing to your mouth. And your smile widened—you were good at this.

You teased and teased the man until you finally got your money out of him, mentioning you needed to get back to the floor.

“You break my heart, hermosa.”

He tugged on your hand limply as you rose to leave. You flashed him another smile. “Such pretty words. I enjoyed this, Javier.”

You leaned back to go, and he leaned with you, reluctantly letting your hand slip through his fingers. You gave him a laugh, one light and drawn-out enough that you knew it would linger as you slipped back into the real world. And without turning back, you were sure it did.

Shamelessly, your eyes immediately went to the table you’d taken Javier from. To Arthur. He was still sitting there with John, but he wasn’t paying him a lick of attention. Instead, his eyes were on you. You flashed him a quick but genuine smile—your ploy had worked. He just took a sip of his beer, eyes never leaving you. And with that, you went back to the crowd, letting the thought of you linger with the handsome stranger.

The later it became, the drunker the patrons grew until you began to feel guilty about the money you were taking from them. But if they were stupid enough to part with it, so be it. You had to make a living too.

The night had another perk to it in that you got to work the floor while Madison danced on stage. Most of the men were so transfixed by her that they remained polite to you if not uninterested, sometimes not even paying attention to how much money they doled out to you. All said, Madison had been dead right. You had made twice more than usual by the time you sauntered past Misha and back into the dressing room.

It was better than you could have hoped for, and you were beginning to think you’d stumbled upon a dream job as you dressed in your street clothes and prepared to leave. The only downside to the night had been the patron you’d had your eye on’s lack of pursuit. Arthur had watched you plenty but never rose to the challenge you’d laid out for him. But so be it—you would likely never see him again anyway.

Taking the back exit as all the girls did so as not to be followed to their cars, you passed the third bouncer—Tom—and waved goodbye. Tom was the most chipper of the three and waved back, wishing you a good night. All things considered, it was shaping up to be the best you’d had in a long time.

When you got back on the highway, there was soon a cacophony of blaring horns and swerving drivers, you being one of them. And when you entered the construction zone and things narrowed down to one less lane, it only got worse. So much worse, in fact, that you were busy cursing a man who had missed merging into you by inches and didn’t turn in time to see that the truck in front of you had stopped dead. You slammed on your brakes, your tires squealing against the pavement, making you barely stop in time, only inches away from the truck. Your heart hammered once, twice, and then your car went crashing forward anyway, hit by the vehicle behind you. You went plunging into the truck at your front in the process, not hitting hard enough to do much damage, but hard enough for you to let out one long string of curses at the car behind you before you could even get your bearings.

The truck in front of you pulled off to the tiny shoulder in what little space the caution cones allowed. You followed suit, as did the person behind you. Good. Because as soon as you were safe and could throw it in park, you were flinging your door open and storming straight for the idiot.

“Are you insane?” you yelled over the din of the traffic. “You could have crushed me like a fucking bug! And look at my car!” You turned and took in the damage—nothing that would total it, but nothing you could afford to fix right now either.

The owner of the car hesitantly got out, cowering at the sight of you bearing down on her. For God’s sake, it was a teenage girl who didn’t even look old enough to drive. You ran a hand down your face with a groan of annoyance. “At least tell me you have a license.”

She nodded with wide eyes.

“Good. I’ll call the police. You just- just stay there.” Then you whipped around and made for your bashed-in car to find your phone. Only, the driver of the truck was blocking your way, leaned against your car with arms crossed. You nearly stumbled when you caught his face—it was Arthur, the patron you had left behind not even thirty minutes ago.

“Fine bit of driving that was,” he quipped at you.

“She pushed me into you,” you snapped back, your anger taking over, flinging your hand in the young girl’s direction. “It’s not my fault no one in this fucking city knows how to drive.”

He chuckled, the sound low and annoyingly attractive. “You’re right about that at least. That people can’t drive, not that it weren’t your fault.”

You scoffed at the insult and continued toward your car, shoving him off of it. “Move. I need to get my phone.”

“Cops are already on the way,” he said.

“Great. You get a gold star,” you said, retrieving your phone anyway, fuming at the way your cutting words only seemed to amuse him. And at the way you still seemed to want him despite the fact that you were now outside of the club, and that was a very foolish thing to want.

You slammed your door shut and made to circle your car and assess the damage when he stopped you. “Don’t bother. You need a tow.”

“And what makes you the expert?” you shot at him.

He smiled, the handsome casualness of it making you want to kiss his lips and simultaneously slap yourself for it.

“That’s the second time you’ve asked me that.”

The reminder of your conversation in the club made your reply die on your tongue. This was a patron. A man who’d had his eyes on you all night. It was a dangerous line you were walking, letting him talk to you like that.

Avoiding that subject, you pointed to your bashed-in back bumper. “It still looks drivable to me. My airbags didn’t even go off.”

“The back ain’t the problem,” he replied. He started for the front of your car, and you begrudgingly followed. You glanced back at the girl behind you who had her nose so deep in her phone you knew it was because you had scared the shit out of her, yelling at her like you had. You rolled your eyes and followed Arthur, noting that on top of everything else, he had a perfect ass. Goddamn him.

“You can’t drive it like this,” he said, pointing to your front bumper.

You rounded the front and immediately let your words fly. “Mother fuck. Your truck did this?” The front bumper was dented in right in the middle, not terribly but enough that it curved underneath the car now, dragging the ground.

“My hitch,” Arthur said, pointing to his truck. His perfectly preserved truck, not a scratch on it. The ball on his hitch had punched straight into your bumper, keeping his truck from being hit.

“Oh, that’s just perfect, isn’t it? Just great. You get to drive away without a scratch, meanwhile me and this idiot have to pay God knows what to get our cars fixed.”

He was about to reply, but you suddenly couldn’t stand whatever it was he was about to say, realizing how bad of a spot this accident put you in. “You know what? No. I’m not paying for a tow truck too. I’m driving this thing home.”

“No you ain’t,” he said with force. “You go forward and that whole bumper rips off and goes under your car. Then you’ll be paying triple what you already are.”

“Again, why would I take your advice?” you snapped, annoyed that he may be right.

“I’m a mechanic,” he said. “I work on shit like this all the time.”

You felt like using every curse word you knew then, just to get your anger out over this situation. If what he was saying was right, as you were sure it was, you would be out of a car and out of a good chunk of money for the whole month.

“I can’t afford all this!” you yelled, throwing your hands up in exasperation.

“Relax,” he said. “I know a guy who can tow it cheap. I’ll have him bring it to my shop. I can fix it for a hell of a lot less than what those big places charge you.”

You faced this near-stranger to gauge what the hell was going through his head. Was this all because of the club? Because he had seen you dance and figured a little off your car would get him something in return?

“What’s in it for you?” you asked, the question as pointed as you could make it.

He just shrugged, not shaken by your question in the slightest. “I been there. It ain’t fun, making your money stretch to last the week.”

Well that was…better than what you expected. But still, you were too suspicious over the circumstances of your meeting this man to let it slide entirely. And, admittedly, you were biased over being attracted to him. “And what about her?” you asked, nodding back toward the girl.

“Same deal for her.”

That was better. If you went to this man’s shop with the other girl, at least the chances of you being killed by a psychopath went down. Plus, you remembered, Arthur had turned down a dance from you at the club. That was worth something at least. And he was being awfully casual with his help now. But that could have been a ruse. Either way, you decided to keep your guard up when you agreed to what he had proposed. You couldn’t afford to do any less in your line of work.

Arthur went and told the girl the same, and before long the cops appeared. Stories and information were swapped, tow trucks were called, and you were soon watching your car being hefted onto the back of one, unbelieving this had happened in your very first week here. Fucking figures.

The whole thing had one tiny upside, and that was that Arthur mentioned Javier and John were both passed out drunk in his truck, barely even waking during the wreck. You sauntered over while the tow trucks were finishing their work and peeked in his windows. Sure enough, John was so far gone that he remained passed out, mouth wide open. Javier, though, was stirring through all of the commotion of cop car lights and tow truck noise. He blinked open his eyes to find you there looking in on him and gave a bleary, “Ruby?”

“Boo,” you said through the window before disappearing with a laugh. He would likely remember it all as a dream.

You rejoined Arthur and the other girl—Emmy, you’d learned. The driver of the first tow truck walked over, and Arthur introduced him. “This is Kieran. He’ll drive you to the shop.”

You eyed both men and, on a whim, turned to Emmy. “Care to ride with me, Emmy?”

The girl was still looking at you like you may pounce on her, making Arthur chuckle.

“Shut up,” you snapped at him before looping your arm through hers, leaving her no choice. “You’re coming with me. Kieran, was it?” The man nodded, giving you nearly the same wide-eyed look as the girl. “Hope you don’t mind an extra passenger.”

“Uh, no, I- no! Not at all,” he said, stuttering after you. Arthur was laughing again, making you roll your eyes as you led the two others to the cab of the truck.

As it stood, Kieran was likely the least intimidating man you’d ever met, so this ride would be an easy one. As for dealing with your new pal the obnoxiously handsome mechanic, that was another matter. You still weren’t entirely convinced this was a good idea, but you needed to save money where you could. Especially only one week into a job you would now have to find another way to get to.

You sighed and wrote it off as bad luck, pulling Emmy into the truck with you. Kieran got in the driver’s side and didn’t say a word, and Emmy finally gained the courage to look you in the eye and say, “You’re being weirdly friendly for someone I just hit with my car.”

That made you laugh, thinking that the same thing applied to who you had rear-ended. You just patted her arm and watched Kieran carefully pull out onto the busy road.

“Us girls have to stick together, Emmy.”

She didn’t answer, joining you in watching the street lights begin to pass by one after the other, leading you farther into this shit show of a night.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #high honor arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #fanfic #writing

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ak319 · 8 days ago

Text

Dark A.M x fem!reader

-- ★ The Word of Claim ┃ ─ 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟖 ─

Warnings/MDNI: tying up reader, violence, character deaths //I don't condone such behaviour irl! Syno: ...The cost of keeping you.. ✰ 6K +++ Am i on a writing spree of rdr2? Maybe. Pics by Miranda on Pin

★ Prev I concept m.list

The wind howled as the gang crouched in the underbrush, eyes fixed on the iron beast barreling toward them. The train's whistle cut through the night, a high, keening sound that sent a ripple of tension through the gathered men. Dutch raised a hand, fingers curling in a silent signal. Mac and Davey exchanged grins, itching for the fight. Arthur exhaled, shifting his weight, his grip tightening around his rifle.

Then-

A thunderous boom as Bill's dynamite sent the rail ties flying. The front wheels of the locomotive lurched, sparks spraying in the darkness as the train screamed in protest, grinding to a forced halt. The doors of the passenger cars flung open, and frightened faces peeked out into the night, lanterns swinging. Their light flickered over drawn guns, glinting steel, and the shadows of outlaws moving fast.

Before Dutch could shout another order, a deafening crack split the air. A bullet whizzed past, embedding itself into the wooden frame of the train car just inches from Bill's head.

"Shit, we got company!" Arthur barked, diving behind a stack of cargo as more gunfire erupted.

From the far end of the train, a group of Cornwall's hired guns stormed forward, rifles raised and eyes burning with purpose. These weren't just any guards, these were men paid well to die for their employer, and they weren't about to let a gang of outlaws get away without a fight.

"Take cover!" Hosea shouted, already raising his pistol as he ducked behind a crate. The first wave of Cornwall's men fired without hesitation, sending bullets ricocheting off the metal rails and tearing through the wooden beams.

Micah was the first to return fire, his revolver flashing as he took one of them down with a well-placed shot to the chest. "You bastards should've stayed in bed!" he hollered.

It took a while to clear them but they did.

"Alright, boys! Get in there!" Dutch roared, revolver drawn.

Arthur and the others surged forward, boots pounding against the ground as they swarmed the train. Mac leapt onto the steps, kicking open the door of the baggage car. Davey was right behind him, rifle raised, eyes gleaming.

"Get on the ground! Now!" Javier barked, waving his pistol at the stunned passengers.

Lenny and Sean moved fast, forcing their way into the private car where the real prize was hidden, Cornwall's strongbox, filled with cash and bonds. Hosea worked swiftly, his practiced hands already picking through valuables as terrified men and women cowered before him.

Everything was going well.

Until the shots rang out.

A deafening crack echoed through the trees, and suddenly, Mac staggered backward, clutching his stomach. Blood bloomed against his shirt like a spreading rose. He didn't even have time to react before another shot took him down.

"Mac!" Davey yelled, spinning around just in time for bullets to slam into his ribs . He crumpled to his knees, coughing violently.

Arthur whipped around, heart pounding. Figures moved in the darkness beyond the train. Rifles flashed.

Pinkertons.

"Shit! It's a goddamn ambush!" Micah roared, ducking behind a crate as bullets shredded through the wood.

Dutch's voice cut through the chaos. "Everyone fall back! Leave it! MOVE!"

The job was over.

Arthur grabbed Davey, yanking him up as he gritted his teeth through the pain. Mac wasn't moving. His wide-eyed stare told them all they needed to know. Lenny fired off a few shots, covering them as they scrambled away.

The Pinkertons were relentless. Gunfire lit up the night as the gang sprinted for the tree line. Bullets whizzed past Arthur's head. Something hot and sharp seared his shoulder, but he barely felt it through the adrenaline.

The only thing that mattered now was survival.

Dutch fired wildly over his shoulder, cursing between gritted teeth. "Keep running, boys! Get to the horses!"

The gang reached the clearing where their mounts were waiting, restless and spooked from the noise. Arthur swung onto his saddle, breath ragged as he yanked the reins.

"GO!"

The night swallowed them whole as they rode hard, leaving the train and one of their own behind.

The heist was a failure.

And the Pinkertons weren't going to stop now.

❀˖°

"He... didn't make it."

A heavy silence fell over the cabin as the weight of the words settled in. The men let out a collective sigh, their exhaustion and grief palpable in the dim candlelight. Hosea, his expression grim, reached down and gently shut Davey's lifeless eyes.

They were holed up in an abandoned cabin, the walls damp and the wind howling through the cracks. The night had turned against them, and now, they were left licking their wounds.

"I still can't believe it," John muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. "Someone tipped 'em off, right? There ain't no other explanation. It's not like we've looted this Leviticus fella before."

"Mhm," Bill grunted. "Maybe the explosion gave us away."

"Oh come on," Dutch snapped, frustration creeping into his voice. "The nearest town wasn't within earshot. That's why this was supposed to be a golden opportunity." His gaze swung toward Micah, sharp and accusing. "Micah! This was your idea, wasn't it? So tell me, how the fuck did this happen?"

Micah raised his hands, his usual cocky smirk nowhere to be seen. "I don't know, boss! I heard about the train, I told you---that's it. My sources? They're loyal, you know 'em."

Dutch exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple as if he could will away the disaster they'd just endured.

"For now, we stay put. One of us needs to get back to camp, let the others know what happened."

"No, all of us need to go and get others to safety too, there is literally no one back there , only women and Pearson." Hosea interjected.

"And risk getting caught?"

"Dutch trust me , they are gone. They just came to shoo us away like they do when they are in the mood. That's it."

The Mexican was the first to stand , being the less injured out of all of them. "I'll go scout then , if it's clear , we leave."

Dutch gave him a long look before nodding. "Be careful out there, boy."

With that Javier rushed out while others groaned and readied themselves. Arthur too, who had a bullet pierced on the side of his back limped towards the door.

"Arthur, you good?"

"Yeah, Hosea. Just a scratch."

Arthur waved him off, his main concern fixed on getting back to camp as soon as possible. Standing watch near the entrance, he kept his eyes on the darkened horizon, waiting for Javier. But even as he scanned the treeline, his ears remained sharp, tuned in to the hushed conversation between the two leaders behind him.

"I just hope they don't start taking this more seriously," Hosea muttered. "It's already in the news, Dutch. The government's pushing this narrative, the hunt for outlaws. They're not taking us lightly anymore, and I fear in the coming years... it'll only get worse for us."

Dutch exhaled, his voice smooth, laced with quiet assurance. "Well... that's why I always think long-term, Hosea. You know that, right?"

The hidden truth drifted between them like the faintest wisp of perfume, undetectable to most, but to those who knew, it was undeniable. A plan, secret and simmering, lay beneath Dutch's words. No one questioned it. No one cared to. Those who did know--Bill and Micah, kept their silence, their faith in Dutch growing stronger with each spoken promise.

"But still," Hosea pressed. "We lost two men today. Today. And this is when things aren't even at their worst yet. Imagine-"

"Hosea, Hosea." Dutch chuckled, shaking his head. "We'll fight when the time comes. We always do. Right, boys?"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group.

"There will always be a tug-of-war. Losses, despair, but don't forget the reward. The rewards."

Arthur's lips curled into a smirk, his spirit reigniting. Then, hooves. The rhythmic pounding of a horse cutting through the stillness. His pulse kicked up, a jolt of strength surging through him. Charles came to his side to look as well.

"CLEAR!"

Javier's voice rang out in the night.

"Let's ride, then." The raven-haired gunslinger announced, and with that, they mounted up, ready to head home while Javier and John stayed behind to bury Davey.

❀˖°

No, no, no---why the fuck is he back? They are back?! Only two casualties?

Why didn't the Pinkertons come to the camp? You gave them this address too-

Please, Uncle Cornwall, you can't possibly be disappointing me too! Fuck you.

Your breath hitched as you listened in horror, heart hammering in your chest while Dutch spoke with the others.

"No, we ain't movin' an inch from here. We lost two men today because of them. We ain't cowards! If we turn back now, it means we're weak. We stay put, it's unlikely they even know where the hell we are."

YES THEY ARE FUCKING SUPPOSED TO KNOW , YOU WROTE ABOUT IT.

Hope? Were you supposed to feel hopeful about this?

Were they even coming?

A hand clasped around your shoulder turning you around and without another word taking you inside the tent.

With an eerie calmness, he settled on the cot and took off his shirt, making you the unfortunate target of witnessing the bullet wound. "Come and fix it up, woman."

Your stomach twisted violently at the sight of the wound, raw, torn flesh marred with dried blood, the bullet still lodged deep inside. The sight alone made your knees weak, your hands clammy as nausea clawed at your throat.

"I-I can't, no. Please." you stammered, voice barely above a breath. The air inside the tent was thick, suffocating, reeking of sweat and iron.

Arthur exhaled sharply, his patience wearing thin. "You can and you will," he muttered, his grip like iron as he seized your wrist and yanked you forward. Your fingers nearly grazed the open wound, the warmth of his blood sending a sickening shudder through you. "Ain't got time for this."

You jerked back instinctively, a whimper caught in your throat. "Arthur, please, I-"

"Do it," he growled, shoving a knife into your trembling hands.

The cold metal burned against your palm, foreign and wrong, like it didn't belong there, because it didn't. You weren't meant for this. You weren't meant to carve into another person's flesh, to dig inside and pull something out. The very thought sent a wave of dizziness crashing over you.

"I don't know how-"

"You'll learn."

Your breath hitched as you looked down at the wound again, bile rising in your throat. Your body refused to move, every instinct screaming at you to run, to turn away and never look back.

Arthur let out a strained chuckle, humorless and low. "Ain't the time to go all delicate on me now." His voice was tight, his breathing uneven, but there was no mercy in his tone. Only steel. Only demand. "Do it."

Your fingers curled around the handle of the knife, the weight of it unnatural in your grasp. The tremor in your hands made the blade shake as you pressed it to his skin, hesitating, just for a second.

Arthur's entire body tensed. "Now."

You inhaled sharply before pushing the blade in. His muscles coiled, a sharp hiss slipping through his gritted teeth, but he didn't stop you. He didn't flinch. You, on the other hand, felt like you were going to throw up. The resistance of flesh against metal, the way blood welled up instantly, it was too much.

Your vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edges of your sight. Your stomach churned violently, but Arthur's voice cut through the haze like a blade.

"Get it out."

You swallowed down a sob, fighting against the nausea threatening to spill over, and forced the blade deeper. Arthur's breath hitched, but he didn't make a sound. He just waited, still as stone, as you dug through muscle, through warmth, through something you shouldn't be touching.

The bullet came loose with a sickening scrape. Your breath hitched, your entire body trembling as you finally pulled it free.

Arthur exhaled, slow and deep, before tilting his head slightly, his voice rough but laced with something almost amused. "See? That wasn't so bad."

You barely heard him over the ringing in your ears. The knife slipped from your fingers, clattering to the ground, and you stumbled back, bile burning the back of your throat. Your hand quickly pushed a cloth on the wound to stop the bleeding.

Arthur simply leaned back, exhaling as if the agony of the last few minutes was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. Meanwhile, you were struggling to keep your stomach from turning inside out.

He glanced over his shoulder at you, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. "Told you you'd learn."

Arthur let out a sharp breath, shifting on the cot before reaching for the small tin of ointment from the box. He pried it open with one hand, the scent of herbs and alcohol filling the space between you. Without a word, he dipped his fingers in, scooping out just enough before thrusting it toward you.

"Put it on."

You recoiled at the texture and smell. "Damn, it's gross-"

He shot you a glare, jaw tightening. "Don't make me repeat shit right now." His voice was edged with something raw, pain, frustration, or maybe just exhaustion.

Your hands trembled as you took the tin from him, the cool salve smearing onto your fingertips. The wound was worse up close, an angry gash torn into his skin, still oozing where the bullet had been. You swallowed against the nausea creeping up your throat.

Arthur exhaled sharply as your fingers brushed against the raw skin, his shoulders going rigid. He didn't make a sound beyond that, though, just clenched his jaw, watching you through half-lidded eyes.

"Faster," he muttered.

You forced yourself to spread the ointment rolling you eyes and looking away once again, your hands hesitant, careful. But when you pulled away too soon, he grabbed your wrist and guided it back. "You gotta press it in, make sure it sticks."

What the fuck is even going on? You weren't cut out--even prepared for this part of the day. You were supposed to be in the middle of being saved by the agency right now.

"Don't just sit there, bandage it up." You blinked at him, barely processing the words.

You didn't move. Your body refused to function.

Where. Are. The. Damn. Pinkertons-

Arthur sighed, and before you knew it, his large hand was gripping yours, steadying the tremor in your fingers. He guided them toward the roll of bandages nearby, his touch warm despite the cold sweat clinging to your skin.

"Here," he muttered, taking the cloth from your grasp when you fumbled with it. He pressed it into your palm, his fingers curling over yours, grounding you. "Just wrap it around. Like this."

This time it wasn't the whole ordeal that made your eyes prickle with fresh tears.

It was memories.

Memories of him, the innocent friendship you both had. When he taught you how to use a gun, how to brush a horse properly... that same tone, that same patience. But now, it sounded so... foreign.

Still reeling, you let him move your hands, let him show you how to tighten the fabric around his wound. His body flinched beneath your touch, muscles tensing, but he didn't complain. If anything, he was helping you do it, his hands firm but patient as they guided yours.

When you hesitated again, Arthur took over, fingers brushing against yours as he secured the bandage himself, tying it with practiced ease. He finally exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if testing the tightness of the wrap. "See?" he said, his voice raspier now, exhaustion creeping in. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

He always used to say this in the end....

This time you just couldn't digest the fact that he was the same boy...the nice caring boy all grown up , now a calamity in your life, the causer of all the other calamities. Grown into a selfish bastard.

You swallowed thickly, unable to speak. The sight of your stained hands, the scent of blood thick in the air, it was all too much.

Arthur must have noticed the way your body trembled because his hand, still slick with his own blood, reached out to grasp your wrist. "You did good," he murmured, voice lower now, almost gentle. "Y'can breathe now."

You didn't realize you'd been holding your breath. Fuck my life honestly.

Today was a waste of breath. For fucking nothing.

Arthur just leaned back on the cot, closing his eyes for a brief moment before smirking, exhaustion etched into every inch of his face.

"Not bad for your first time."

You turned away before he could see the bile rising in your throat. "W-we're not leaving, then?"

"Dutch said no."

"Wouldn't it be... worse if they come here? Abigail's conditio-"

"Nothin' for you to worry your head about."

Damn it---it fucking is!

On one side, you have to keep up this innocent act, but your heart is hammering in your chest, your body stiff with fear. The frustration on the men's faces, the anger in their voices, the sheer conviction in their words, it's enough to make you tremble to the bone. And then this, this fucking operation-

Your gaze flickers to him, his eyes shut, his face unreadable.

What... will he do if he finds out?

The aftermath of this plan might be more nerve-wracking than the actual act itself.

If even one person starts suspecting, if one seed of doubt is sown that it was you-

You'll be fucking dead.

Right? Would that even be worse than this?

Yeah.

What the hell are you scared for? As if you have anything left to lose.

"Bring me something to eat... and a painkiller."

You don't argue and hesitate. You just exited, washed your hands, and hurried off toward Hosea, who's busy tending to the others. As you hurried back, food and med in hand, you kept your eyes down, avoiding the scattered looks, the hushed conversations, the growing tension that sat like a storm cloud over camp. Arthur was where you left him, eyes open now, watching you as you approached.

If he ever found out-

You swallowed hard and forced a small, obedient nudge of a head as you set the food and pills beside him.

"Good girl," he muttered, taking them without another word.

You sat there, silent, hands curled into fists in your lap.

And you waited.

Did all your effort go to waste? There's no way you'll be able to pull off a stunt like that again. The perfect chance, gone, wasted. And for what? A half-assed result?

Why is he still here? Why are Dutch and Micah still standing?

"-Huh?"

Your head snapped toward his voice, your throat tightening. "What?"

"Where's Suki?"

As if on cue, she padded in, drawn by the scent of food, her tail flicking as she eyed the bowl in his hands. Before she could leap onto his lap, you scooped her up, holding her close.

"Always hungry, huh? You little sweetheart ." The so called sweetheart meowed to his words making you pissed. Don't respond to his ass- Arthur chuckled, the low sound so casual it sent a jolt of frustration through you. How the hell is he laughing, amidst all this? The least you could've hoped for was some distress, some flicker of fear in his eyes. Something--anything--to reflect the way he makes you feel.

Did you underestimate these men?....They really are the worst of mankind. But what are you supposed to do now?....

A gentle knock on the tent flap interrupted the tense silence, followed by a familiar voice. "Can I?"

A subt--not so subtle nudge from his leg pulled you from your thoughts, your eyes snapping up to meet his. There was no need for words, his gaze alone was enough to tell you what he wanted. Compose yourself. Hide the fact that you looked like someone barely holding it together.

Clenching your teeth, you adjusted your shawl, smoothing the fabric as best you could. Your hands instinctively moved to fix your hair and tug your blouse into place, ensuring you looked modest. Only then did he finally give John permission to enter.

"You doin' alright, brother?"

Arthur grunted, barely sparing him a glance. "Peachy."

John exhaled, shifting closer and settling onto the small stool beneath him. "Man... I don't, who the fuck are these sources of his, Arthur?"

His? Who?

"I ain't got a clue, but if Dutch trusts 'em, then-"

"That's what I'm sayin'," John cut in, his frustration simmering beneath his words. "Why does he? Why does he trust some two-day drifter more than us---us, who've been here, who've bled for this gang--"

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

"...Been here longer."

Arthur let out a slow exhale, shifting slightly where he sat. "Ain't sayin' you're wrong." His voice was rough, edged with something unreadable. "Just sayin' Dutch don't like bein' questioned."

John scoffed, leaning back on his palms. "Yeah, well, maybe it's about damn time someone did."

"However all that happened but Mac and Davey....they were young, John. And now they’re corpses...jus' cuz we got caught, weren't careful.”

You swallowed with eyes on your lap as Arthur and John shared a mournful silence.

John's jaw tightened as he shook his head. "Whatever, I'll keep an eye jus' in case and you uh...Take care and...g'night."

So Micah huh?

John really saved you indirectly today.

"He...talking about Micah?"

Arthur put the bowl on the table beside him. "Hm. Don't say his name right now. I am done with today."

Little did he know, the morning after held much of a surprise for everyone.

❀˖°

The heavy thud of horse hooves stirred the camp like thunder cracking over calm skies. One by one, the gang spilled out of their tents to face the intrusion, Dutch at the front with his hands behind his back, calm as ever.

The only two missing were you and Arthur.

You had barely slept. Eyes wide open in the silence, heart pounding long before the sound of hooves broke the morning. The moment they echoed through the valley, something in you jolted. As if life, a new fucking soul was blown back into your body.

You kicked off the blanket, about to make a run for the tent’s flap, when a strong hand caught your wrist.

"I--um-I need to pee," you mumbled, trying to pull free.

"Wait... who's that-" Arthur stirred fully awake, his voice thick with sleep but already edged in suspicion. He was on his feet before you could say another word, stepping toward the entrance with slow, heavy strides.

Outside, a voice like smoke and mockery cut through the early light.

"Dutch Van der Linde. Ain’t it? And this is your gang? Finally have the pleasure of seein’ y’all’s angelic faces. Just look at you. What a nice, welcoming-lookin’ family."

"Name's Benjamin Kane."

The man grinned from atop a pale horse, clean-shaven and too calm to be friendly. His badge caught the light.

Benjamin dismounted slowly, boots crunching on dirt still stained from last night’s retreat. The air stank faintly of gunpowder and blood, a reminder that the land had not yet healed. He took his time, brushing dust from his coat like he hadn't ridden in on the ashes of their grief.

"You boys sleep well?" he asked, tone syrupy sweet. "Bit quieter here than it was last night, I’d wager."

Dutch stood tall, unreadable, but the men around him bristled. Javier’s jaw was tight. Bill wouldn’t meet anyone’s eye. Charles stood like stone.

"Ah, don’t look at me like that," Benjamin said, feigning a pout. "Wasn’t personal. Just a friendly visit, you understand. Pity about Mac. And Davey. Real shame."

"You smug son of a-" Bill stepped forward, but Hosea caught his arm.

"Let him talk," Hosea murmured, voice low.

Benjamin's eyes gleamed. "There’s the sensible one. Hosea Matthews. Dutch’s leash, right?"

He stepped a little closer, the calm in his voice growing thinner, more frayed.

"You think this is just another failed chase, don't you? Another ambush survived, another campfire lit in another Godforsaken patch of nowhere. But you’re bleeding, Dutch. Whether you see it or not. You’re leaking men, morale, and time. And there ain’t a gang in history that’s survived all three."

Dutch’s eyes didn’t flicker. "You done with your poetry?"

"Not quite," Benjamin said, pacing slowly in front of them like a preacher at a pulpit. "See, I came out here without orders. Just wanted to see the faces of the men who left two corpses in our path and still thought they were winning. And look at you, like ghosts clingin’ to cinders. And not just the gold, the supplies..." Benjamin’s voice dripped with mockery. "Heard you boys been looting women too... still holding onto that tradition, I see. The Word, right? Heard 'bout it."

That was what made Arthur tense. His whole body went rigid, his jaw grinding as his shoulders lifted in a slow, dangerous breath.

You caught those words through the cloth walls of the tent, barely, but clear enough. Something in you twisted, panic rising as you realized Arthur had stopped listening to the conversation outside. He turned to you instead, his shadow cutting the light in two.

You thought, just for a heartbeat, that he might walk out. That he’d let the storm pass. But then you saw his eyes. And you realized he was going to do something unthinkable.

"Arthu-wha--"

Your words barely escaped before, in one brutal motion, he shoved his bandana into your mouth, silencing you with a muffled cry. You thrashed, but his grip was iron, cold and relentless.

He forced you back onto the cot, which was creaking under your struggling body and his calm one. Rough rope bit into your skin as he tied your wrists to the frame, the knots tight and merciless. You kicked wildly, muffling screams never stopping, tears burning in your eyes, but he caught your ankles and bound them too, securing you as if he expected you to fight him forever.

His breathing was ragged now, eyes wide, his movements sharp with something that wasn’t just rage, something darker, more desperate.

He just stood over you, chest rising and falling as he looked down at you bound and trembling.

Dutch snorted, stepping forward. "The Word ain’t just noise, Agent. It’s a man’s bond. An outlaw's vow. Mock that again, and you’ll see what it’s worth."

The sound of rifle clicking behind the leader followed the quiet threat, making Kane roll his eyes.

"Oh yeah, sure," Benjamin said, grinning. "Your men and honor go way back, don’t they? Symbol of bravery, ain’t it? This time a daughter of some prestigious man got taken. (F/N) (L/N). God, poor bastard. That one made the rounds through the agency. But he stopped talkin’. Suspicious, huh?"

Dutch’s voice dropped to a growl. "Why are you here? Wanna finish what you started last night?"

"You could say that." Benjamin shrugged, brushing imaginary dust from his lapel. "Look, there are women here."

His gaze flicked lazily across the camp before landing on Abigail, who stood half-shielded behind a barrel, visibly pregnant, her hands protectively resting on her belly.

"And I would hate," he said slowly, "to see young mothers locked in a jail cell, or worse. You know how our prisons treat women... especially ones without names, without men to speak for them."

He stepped forward, tone cooler now, more calculated.

"Look, Dutch... I’m not here because I want to be. Orders came down from above, men with polished shoes and clean hands who wanted this mess cleaned up nice and quiet. The ambush last night? Three agents dead. The headquarters is breathing down my neck for accountability. And not just some half-dead outlaw with a bounty poster no one reads anymore. They want something... symbolic."

His eyes flicked around the camp for just a second. He didn’t need to say your name.

"She’s not just some poor girl. She’s a message. A tidy little offering to calm the waters. A reminder that the Van der Linde gang doesn’t get to take what it wants without consequence."

He smiled like a man making a generous offer.

"So here’s what I’m offering. You give her up, willingly, and I walk. No further raids. No charges filed. The rest of your people get to keep breathing free air. Don’t take it personally, Dutch. This ain’t justice. It’s politics. She's the headline they need. And if I don’t bring her back, someone worse than me is gonna come tearing through here, and they won’t be offering deals."

Dutch’s jaw ticked, his silence stretched thin as his eyes followed Benjamin’s every step.

'Bastard probably gets paid filthy by the government to hunt us, don’t want the money to stop flowin’. Clever snake, livin’ fat off our blood.'

Beside him, Hosea leaned in again, voice low, cautious. "Dutch... it’s not worth it. If we play it right, we buy time. Let her go. We’ll find a way to fix it later."

Dutch didn’t answer right away. 'Mhm, well, we got the land anyway, so what's her use here? Hosea's right. His eyes had dulled into something faraway, calculating.

Benjamin watched them like a man enjoying theatre. "Tick tock, boys. Make it easy. Hand her over, and your family gets to keep breathing."

Then came a voice like thunder.

"Care to repeat that?"

The entire camp turned.

Arthur stood at the edge of the tent flap, shirtless, bandaged, and breathing hard. His eyes burned with something feral, something broken and livid and past the point of reason.

"Arthur--go back," Dutch said through gritted teeth, fearing the worst from the boy. Probably the first time in years he had taken him in. "I said, go inside."

Benjamin’s smile didn’t falter. "Ah, here he is. The symbol of honor, ain't it?. Just striking up a deal, Morgan. Talkin’ about the girl you took-"

Arthur didn’t let him finish.

His revolver was drawn before the next breath left anyone’s throat.

The gunshot cracked through camp, the sound sharp and final. Benjamin’s head snapped back, his body hitting the dirt like a puppet with its strings cut.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

And then the agents scrambled for their weapons, but Arthur was already moving, quick, brutal, another shot, another man down. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t look back, as if the weight of his choice had never even grazed him.

The gang erupted into chaos. Bullets tore through the air, the sharp ring of lead and fire filling the morning as Arthur cut through the agents like they were nothing more than brush in his path.

When the last one hit the ground, the silence that followed was louder than the gunfire.

Arthur’s chest heaved as he lowered his revolver, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack. His hands were still shaking.

The rest of the gang stared at him, frozen, furious, horrified.

"What the hell have you done, Arthur?!" Javier’s voice was the first to break, sharp with disbelief.

"You just signed our death warrant!" Bill roared, his face twisted in panic.

Dutch said nothing.

Hosea’s gaze was heavy with something between heartbreak and rage.

Arthur finally turned his head, his voice low, venomous.

"They don't get to take her. Ever. No one! It's my wife y'all are talking bout' not some piece of gold that I get to give away for some half ass deal. Bought her 'ere to stay."

Smoke still curled above the bodies. The morning light had turned harsh, casting long shadows across the camp like something had broken.

Dutch stared after Arthur, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might snap.

"He's lost his goddamn mind!" he bellowed, slamming his hat to the dirt. "He’s gone crazy, Hosea! THE BOY HAS GONE NUTS! You see what he just did?! That was the Bureau!"

No one answered. Not right away.

Hosea stood rigid, eyes locked on the tent Arthur had disappeared into. Abigail pressed a trembling hand to her mouth as the girls quietly gathered around her, wide-eyed and shaken. Charles lowered his rifle with slow, solemn hands. Even Micah, for once, said nothing, his mouth tight, eyes narrowed in unreadable silence.

Susan stepped forward last, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her mouth was a thin line, and though she said nothing, the way she stared at that tent made it clear, if anyone else had done what Arthur just did, they'd already be six feet under.

Dutch turned and pointed toward the bodies littering the ground. "That there?! That was our death sentence! We had a deal! We had a way out! And now?! Now we’re gonna have the whole damn government crawling up our asses like termites in a coffin!"

He paced like a caged animal, hands in his hair, breathing hard. "Goddammit, Arthur!"

But Arthur didn’t respond.

He was already , into the tent, the flap swaying behind him like it hadn’t just closed on the future of every man still breathing outside.

And you…

You had heard everything. Every word. Every shot. Every scream.

And now, you were seeing everything.

The blood spattered across his bare chest hadn’t come from the wound beneath the bandages, it was fresh. Wet. Still warm. It painted him like war paint, streaked across muscle and skin in violent crimson.

That right there… was your last hope burning to ash.

He loomed over you, gun still in hand, fingers twitching from the kill. His boots stopped inches from your cot, and the air in the tent seemed to disappear with him.

"See that?" he growled, voice dark and shaking with fury. "They don’t get to walk in here and destroy my fuckin’ life."

You could barely breathe.

Your wrists ached from the bindings. Your heart pounded so fast it felt like it might rupture, but somehow, you were still alive. Still conscious. Trapped beneath the man who had just painted the camp red for you.

His eyes bore into yours, unreadable, wild.

"I’d lay a hundred more men down just like them," he hissed. "You hear me? Maybe now they'll shut the hell up about you. Maybe now they'll get the fuckin' message."

The gun tilted slightly in his hand, casual, like it belonged there, like it belonged to him.

And in that moment, you weren’t sure what scared you more.

The violence outside.

Or the man who had brought it in to keep you.

Arthur slid onto the cot, his body half-covering yours, slow and heavy like a storm rolling in with nowhere else to go. His shadow swept over you, blotting out the last flicker of safety.

His gun clattered to the floor, forgotten for now, but the weight of him, the danger, never left.

His fingers found the knot at your wrists, pulling at it, not with urgency, but with a kind of sick patience. Like he was savoring this. Taking in the sight of you trembling, your cheeks slick with tears, your chest heaving beneath him.

The rope loosened, strand by slow strand, dragging across your sore skin as he freed you, never taking his eyes off your face. His gaze burned, hungry, a man who’d tasted violence and decided it wasn’t enough, he needed you to understand why he did it.

He moved to your ankles next, working the knots free with the same torturous slowness, as if the struggle had been a gift, something he would miss.

"Look at you," he breathed, his thumb brushing away one of your tears, though it didn’t seem like he wanted them gone. "Cryin’ for me… or cryin’ for them? Mhm? Don’t matter. You’re here."

Before you could find your voice, strength, and recoil, he grabbed your face in both hands and crashed his mouth against yours.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind.

His kiss was punishing, desperate, his teeth grazing your lip as if he wanted to consume the breath from your lungs. His fingers dug into your jaw, holding you there, forcing you to feel every ounce of his rage, his obsession, his twisted relief that you were still his.

He kissed you like a man clinging to the last thing he hadn’t yet destroyed.

And when he finally pulled back, his breath was hot against your lips.

"I told you darlin'," he whispered, the threat curled sweetly beneath his words. "Ain’t no one takin’ you from me."

─AN: Guys, doesn't it hurt to know that Cornwall at least sent agents and believed one letter he received from reader like literally, as compared to yall's daddy here, who just gave up? 👀 Interactions and ur thoughts bout the fic are always appreciated and a boost, so don't be shy, my pooks. To be added or removed from the tag list, u can always lemme know!

★ tag list: @m1stea @warmsideofthepillow03 @thatoneraeder @marzintears @nxttaru @cazzacarm @she-is-my-unrequited-love34 @nulixity @poll-u @bajabish @cheesycheddarr @luzzbuzz @dilfsarelife @ninastyless @claire-is-here @replaythatrayrae @hopingtoclearmedschool @lain3iwakura @bashfulcowgirl87 @catjsashrine @bipolarbitties @lizynownow @littlebirdgot @heloixe @summerdazed @meheheasasa @sensitivegamergirl @jbrownta @mandalover2023 @ceza-141 @httpskuri @abigatorchomp @nalitali

#Word of Claim #red dead redemption arthur #arthur morgan #arthur morgan rdr2 #rdr2 arthur #arthur morgan x reader #yandere rdr2 #low honor arthur morgan #yandere x female reader #yandere x fem reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan fanfiction #red dead redemption two #red dead 2 #red dead redemption community #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 dutch #dutch van der linde

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just-another-author-i-guess · 8 months ago

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NEW!!!!! Masterlist Nov. 2024

A/N: I'm not really sure if this counts as a return lol, but I've grown a lot as a person and I think my writing-style and interest are v different now,,, so here's a new and updated (I'm not 14 anymore and I don't really like the same things I did when I started) masterlist (:

Important info (read pls before requesting): Since I'm over 18 y/o (I just turned 20, yay) I no longer accept any requests for minor characters or aged up versions of minors or anything like that. I'd feel really uncomfortable writing for them now, compared to when I started this blog at 14 lol. I also don't write mlm smut, not bc I want to be mean or less inclusive or anything, but bc I'm literally a bisexual woman and I feel like it's not really my place to write that kind of stuff (bro idk how to, I also fear I wouldn't portray it well at all bc obviously I haven't been in any situations like that),,, tho that does not mean I won't write mlm sfw!!! I'd be more than happy to (:

When I write I can only really do so with my own experiences in mind, so my nsfw stuff will mainly be fem!POV or gn, bc that's what I'm comfortable with... tho with that said, feel free to msg me or ask a question in the 'requests' if any of this seems confusing or unclear!

REQUEST HERE! <3

Judd Birch (big mouth) - judd birch x gn!reader - reader’s first time w/ judd - judd birch relationshp hc’s - judd birch x alt! reader - the one where Judd gives dating advice - four (4) reason’s judd has ‘keep out’ signs on his door (mr. birch is a menace) - just judd things (headcannons pt.2) - judd smut drabble - a heart to heart about Jessi’s sister’s boyfriend - going to school with Judd - judd smut in Y/n’s car - high judd headcannons

✰ ✰ ✰⛱⛈

- vincenzo ‘vinny’ santorini (atlantis)

vinny relationship headcannons

... more coming soon!

╰ ----------- ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

NEW ADDS! Spooky Diaz (on my block) a/n: I just finished watching it pls I'm so in love w Oscar.

(RE) Karl Heisenberg

Heisenberg x gn!reader hcs :D

Heisenberg x fem!reader, posted on ao3 but I need to edit a few things 'fore posting it here,,,

(RDR2, the gang, Flaco?) Flaco x pregnant!fem!reader... bc I'm down bad ): Flaco x pregnant!reader HERE

Teaching reader poker x the guys: Arthur, John, Javier, Charles... (coming soon)

MORE COMING AT SOME POINT! But I have a looottt of requests to finish, I've been afk for like almost 3 years or something but I really appreciate the nice msgs I got (:

((I have a lot of Les mis stuff on my ao3 and I’ll definitely post it over here if ppl are interested but it’s kinda a lot different from what I usually write bc I’m more pretentious on ao3 lmfao. Anyway lemme know))

*here's a link to my ao3, since I've posted some les mis stuff and other things on there that I'm not sure you ppl on here would like... but lemme know if u want me to crosspost it on here <3 justanotherauthorig

#headcannons #judd birch #judd birch x reader #big mouth x reader #justanotherauthorig #rdr2 #flaco hernandez #masterlist #thank u #les mis #smut hcs

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gullemec · 4 months ago

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Growth and Decay

Bitten - Part V

Bitten Masterlist ao3

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: For the first time since your attack, you and Joel venture into civilization. But instead of salvation, you find your nightmares reflected back on you.

Warnings: canon-typical violence (but it gets pretty graphic/descriptive in this chapter), gun use, angst as always!, reader is experiencing some pretty significant PTSD, description of injuries and treating injuries

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7.4k

A/N: I am sooo very sorry about the delay in getting this out. School has been bonkers for me and then I decided to start playing RDR2 and you can imagine how that's going. On the upside—I already have some Arthur fic ideas percolating. Stay tuned!

Laurel, Montana is a ghost town gripped in the verdant fist of nature.

Once a bustling stretch of streets and businesses now sits empty and seemingly untouched by the claws of winter that found you up in the mountains. You think this must be a testament to the fragility of human creation, the determination of Earth reclaiming what was always hers.

You and Joel move cautiously through the outskirts, weaving between thickets of tall grass that stretch past your knees and weeds that break through the cracked remains of sidewalks. Past the crumbling brick facades that once held stores, their faded signs obscured beneath layers of debris and dirt. Convenience, one reads, the word barely visible through the ivy crawling up its face.

Your eyes sweep across the barren street, muscles taut, senses straining for anything amiss. Movement, sound, the telltale signs of recent activity, human or otherwise. But there’s nothing, only silence and decay, that familiar yet eerie absence of life. Your fingers tighten around your pistol, the familiar weight grounding you. It’s not your weapon of choice, you're much handier with a blade, but Joel insisted.

The world feels paused here, frozen in the moment it all ended, save for the steady advance of green swallowing grey.

Grass and wildflowers spill from wide cracks in the pavement, the shoots vibrant and defiant against the grey of the asphalt. Lush vines twist their way up the fractured brickwork, some reaching all the way to the roofs of buildings that sag under the weight of years gone by. Thick carpets of moss coat piles of rubble, softening thor jagged edges.

Just ahead, an overturned car sits on what used to be the main road. The windows are rimmed with shards of broken glass, yawning open to the sky. The tires hang in tattered strips of rubber, the steel belts exposed and rusted. A bird’s nest, now long abandoned, is tucked inside a wheel well. Your lip curls at the small reminder that even destruction can become a home for something.

The sound of your boots crunching against gravel and weeds feels too loud, intrusive against the quiet. Joel moves a few steps ahead, his head moving side to side and he does a visual sweep, his rifle held low but ready. He pauses at the intersection of two streets, glancing back at you.

“Keep your eyes open,” he says firmly.

You nod, stepping closer, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end despite the stillness around you. There’s a strange feeling to this place, like walking through a graveyard where the world has mourned and moved on, leaving a veil of green to cover the scars.

The remnants of the town tell a story, just like the house did, pieced together in fragments. A little red bicycle, resting against a lamp post, its training wheels still clinging on. A storefront window shattered, the jagged shards framing a display of dusty mannequins dressed in tattered clothes. A faded Help Wanted sign still clings to the wall behind them.

And yet, it isn’t just the destruction that strikes you.

It’s the life threading its way through decay. It’s the way the trees grow through where buildings once stood, their roots breaking through foundations and upending what little remains of the structures. It’s the shadows of the birds as they flit between empty shells of buildings, their singsong too bright and cheery.

Joel rounds on the overturned car, crouching low and tucking himself behind it. His movements are practiced and purposeful, every inch the survivor you’ve come to know over the past year. He doesn’t spare you a glance, just nods toward the car, a silent command for you to follow. You obey, your body moving instinctively even as your mind churns with a thousand thoughts.

The tension between you feels suffocating, thicker than the silence that settled over you both in those early days after the bite. Back then, the weight of what had happened hung heavy in the air, too vast and terrible to put into words. Now, it feels like something else entirely, a chasm carved between you, widened by every unanswered question, every conversation Joel refuses to have. It’s almost worse than the silence of those days because now you know what’s been lost.

This morning had been no different. You ate in silence, sharing a can of beans you’d found tucked in the very back of a cupboard in that old house. Joel had barely looked at you as he ate, his focus fixed on somewhere far away before you’d even left, his words clipped and brief. He’s always been like that, focused on the task ahead, too practical for sentimentality, but it wasn’t always this cold. There used to be warmth in the silences, a kind of understanding. Now there’s only a void, and it’s swallowing you whole.

As you crouch behind the car, you let your fingers drift over the cool metal, its surface rough and mottled with rust. It’s a strange thing to fixate on, but you can’t help it. The car, like the town, like you, is a proof of what time and destruction can do.

What was once something whole, something purposeful, now just a shell, picked to pieces by the world, its life spark long gone.

Maybe the bite hadn’t killed you, but it changed you in ways you still don’t fully understand. Joel can say he doesn’t see it, but you feel it in your bones, in your blood. Some part of you died that day, and what’s left is something you don’t recognize.

Joel shifts forward, peering out from behind the car, his eyes scanning the street for movement. His face is a mask of focus, but you can see the strain in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. He’s always on edge now, always waiting for the next threat. You wonder if it’s because of you. If he’s waiting for the day you prove him right, prove that you’re not the same, that you’re something else entirely.

The thought eats at you, gnawing at the edges of your already rapidly dissolving calm.

In those quiet moments before sleep takes you, you try to tell yourself that you’re still you, try to convince your brain that what happened doesn't define you now. But it’s hard to believe it when Joel, the man who’s saved you more times than you can count, who’s seen more devastation than you could ever try to understand, won’t meet your eyes. It’s hard not to feel like a burden, like a mistake he doesn’t have the strength to correct.

You toss a glance around you, at the town that looks like it’s being swallowed by nature. It should be beautiful, this reclamation of life, but all you see is decay. All you see is what’s been lost. The town, for all its creeping green and vibrant wildflowers, is still dead at its core. It’s a lie nature tells, dressing up ruins in the trappings of new life.

You think it disturbs you because it’s what you see in your reflection.

A lie.

Something that looks human on the outside but isn’t, not really. You’re not sure what you are anymore. Not alive, not dead. Just… something in between.

Something that doesn’t belong.

Joel’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. “C’mon,” he says, low and gruff. “Clear ahead.”

You nod, even though your body feels heavy, like it might refuse to move. You push yourself to your feet and follow him, keeping your distance, letting him take the lead. He doesn’t look back, and you don’t expect him to.

You glance down at your hands, at the fingers that feel colder than they used to, as though the blood running through them isn’t yours anymore. You wonder if this is what it feels like to decay from the inside out. To look alive but feel like something rotting beneath the surface.

Joel stops suddenly, turning back to you with that permanent furrow in his brow. “You good?”

It’s the first time he’s asked you that all day, and the sound of it landslike a blow. You want to tell him the truth, to spill everything that’s been building inside you. But the words catch in your throat, swallowed by the fear that he’ll shut you out again. That he’ll look at you the way he did when he first saw the bite, that mixture of fear and regret that you can’t bear to see again.

“Yeah,” you say, and even you can tell your words fall flat. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t press you. He just nods and keeps moving, his boots crunching against the broken pavement. You follow, your eyes on the ground, your thoughts heavier than ever.

Twenty feet ahead, Joel spots an old supermarket, its awnings drooping in jagged tatters that flutter in the breeze. The building looks like it’s been frozen mid-collapse, its cinder block walls cracked but still standing. Vines climb the walls, their green fingers threading through the broken mortar and curling around the faded, flaking letters of the store’s name. The small parking lot out front is a graveyard of rusted shopping carts, their frames twisted and mangled, pushed into a haphazard pile near the entrance, like they were once used as a barricade.

Yet compared to the surrounding ruins, skeletons of buildings swallowed by nature and time, the supermarket looks remarkably intact. Its boarded windows and sagging door give the illusion of quiet sanctuary, but you’ve been out here long enough to know better.

Joel pauses at the edge of the lot, his sharp gaze sweeping over the building and the rusted debris around it. He tightens his grip on his rifle, his expression hardening into that look he gets when he’s bracing for trouble.

“Over there,” he says, his tone low, all authority. That voice, the one that warms against argument, pulls you into focus, instinct taking over. “We’ll clear it and take whatever we can find. I’ll lead. You watch our six. You got it?”

You nod without hesitation, the weight of your pistol heavy in your hand as you fall in step behind him. This is something you know how to do, a ritual you’ve repeated so many times it can only come naturally. A chance to prove to Joel you’re still useful, still his teammate.

The air inside is thick, suffocating, heavy with the smell of damp rot and decay. Broken glass crunches under your boots as you follow Joel inside, the sound uncomfortably loud in the damning quiet. Dust hangs in the air like a cloud, swirling dreamily in the dim light filtering through the boarded windows.

The shelves, once overstuffed with a bounty of foods you haven’t tasted in years, now stand empty, their dusty metal frames bent and bare. Here and there, a forgotten can or crushed box clings stubbornly to the past, but even these remnants are battered, their labels faded or peeling away.

Oh, the things you’d do to have a bowl of Lucky Charms again.

Joel moves ahead of you, his footsteps measured and deliberate, his rifle sweeping the aisles like a predator sniffing for prey. His broad shoulders are tense, his movements precise, as if each step could be his last. You’ve seen him like this before, his body language screaming that something is off even if he hasn’t said it aloud yet.

“It’s too quiet,” you mutter under your breath, almost to yourself, but Joel catches it. He doesn’t reply, just gives the smallest tilt of his head, his sharp eyes scanning the shadows.

The silence here feels wrong in here, unnatural, like something is holding its breath. Every sound you make, every crunch of glass or shuffle of debris, feels like a shout into the void. Your pulse jumps, and you force yourself to stay focused, to match Joel’s movements.

“You see anything?” you whisper, keeping your voice low.

“No. That’s what’s botherin’ me.” His eyes dart toward the far end of the store, where the light fades into deeper darkness.

You both continue down the aisles, your hand darting out occasionally to grab whatever looks salvageable. A dented can of beans, a half-empty bag of rice, a plastic water bottle caked in grime. You tuck it all away in your pack. But your unease grows with each step. The place feels too untouched, too convenient. Like bait left out in the open.

Then you see it.

Near the far end of the store, where the light fades into deeper shadows, a cluster of empty cans sits in an otherwise barren aisle. The sight stops you cold. Unlike the thick layer of dust that coats everything else in this place, the cans are clean, gleaming unnaturally in the dim light. Too clean.

“Joel,” you whisper sharply, reaching out to grab his shoulder.

But before you can say more, you hear it.

A sound. Whisper quiet at first, just the barest scrape of movement, but unmistakable. Footsteps.

Then voices.

Low, murmured words drift through the aisles, growing closer. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Joel freezes, his posture shifting immediately, instinctively, into one of readiness. His rifle comes up, his head tilting to his good side to locate the sound.

“Get down,” he murmurs, and you know by the tone of his voice to listen.

You duck behind a nearby shelf, the metal frame cold and sharp against your back. Your heart pounds in your ears as the voices draw nearer. You can’t make out what they’re saying, but your instincts tell you it’s nothing good.

Your fingers tighten around your pistol, your breath shallow as you glance at Joel. His jaw is set, his eyes sharp and calculating as he motions for you to stay put. And then the voices stop.

The silence that follows is louder than any gunshot, pressing in on you from all sides.

And you realize that they know you’re here.

The first gunshot shatters the silence.

It’s loud, too loud, and it jolts through you like a live wire. Before you can even register what’s happening, Joel is already moving, the crack of his rifle filling the air as he ducks behind an overturned shelf and fires.

The raiders pour out of the shadows like wolves circling their prey. There aren’t many—four, maybe five—but desperation radiates off of them in waves. Their clothes hang loose from thin frames, their skin sallow and smudged with dirt. You make eye contact with one, his eyes burning with a frenzied, unhinged light.

These aren’t trained killers. They’re wild animals backed into a corner. You’re not sure which is worse.

Joel takes two down in seconds, all ruthless precision.

He yells something. Your name, maybe? An order? But the words are lost in the roar of gunfire and the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears.

You try to move. You want to move. But your legs feel rooted to the floor, the soles of your boots glued to the linoleum.

The world narrows to a pinprick, every sound muffled by a deafening roar of white noise. Your breathing is shallow, frantic, but it doesn’t feel like you’re getting any air. Your hands shake uncontrollably, your fingers clumsy as they fumble for the pistol in your grip.

Why can’t you move?

You’ve done this before. So many times. Joel always said you had a knack for it, that you were quick, reliable, a hell of a shot when it counted. So why now, in this moment, do you feel like you’re crumbling from the inside out?

A shout cuts through the haze. Joel’s voice.

“Move! Goddamn it, move!”

You force your head to turn, your eyes locking onto him for half a second. He’s crouched behind a shelf, his rifle raised, taking aim at a man trying to flank him. His face is a mask of controlled fury, but even from here, you can see the flicker of disbelief in his eyes when he looks at you.

Joel’s never seen you freeze before. Not like this.

“Do something!” he yells, strained with the effort of splitting his focus between you and the attackers.

But you can’t. Your legs refuse to listen, your arms too weak to lift the pistol with any sense of control. Your vision tunnels as you stare at the scene unfolding in front of you, the raiders scrambling for cover, Joel firing round after round, the way the bullet casings ricochet through the smoke-filled air.

Your breath catches as a third man crumples to the ground, taken out by Joel’s unrelenting fire. But then Joel disappears from view, ducking behind another aisle to reload, out of your sight.

And that’s when it happens.

Strong arms wrap around you from behind, locking you in place, your arms pinned to your sides like a vise. Your breath catches in your throat, your body stiffening as your mind scrambles to react. Your hand tightens instinctively around your pistol, but it’s useless, frozen in your trembling grip.

For a second, it feels like time slows. The heat of the man’s breath on your neck is overwhelming, rancid, the sound of his low grunt echoing in your ears as he adjusts his grip to pull you tighter. Your vision blurs, and the supermarket—the shelves, the dust, the smoky light filtering through broken windows—all of it begins to dissolve.

And then you’re not in the supermarket at all anymore.

You’re at the river.

The roar of the swollen water drowns out everything else, pounding in your ears like a war drum. Your back hits the cold, slick ground with a heavy thud, knocking the air from your lungs. And it’s there, on top of you.

That thing. That fucking thing.

Its mottled, decaying face hanging inches from yours, teeth gnashing as it screeches, a sound that cuts straight through you like a blade. Its hands claw at you, filthy nails raking against your skin as it pins you down. Its weight is crushing, its stench unbearable, overwhelming rot and blood and evil.

You’re screaming. You’re begging. You’re thrashing against it, every ounce of your strength pouring into this desperate, animalistic fight for your life.

Your arms slip free from its grip, adrenaline burning through your veins like fire. You twist, throwing your weight into the motion, and suddenly you’re on top of it, straddling its chest. The slick, wet ground beneath you fades into nothingness. There’s only this thing and your need to destroy it.

Your pistol is gone, vanished into the ether, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the overwhelming urge to end it.

You pull your arm back, your fist trembling with fury and desperation, and then you bring it down with all your strength.

The impact sends a shockwave up your arm. You feel a wet crack beneath your knuckles, the way its face collapses under the force of the blow. Blood spatters across your hand, warm and slick, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop.

You pull your arm back again and slam your fist down, harder this time. Another crunch, another sickening wet sound. Its head jerks to the side, but you grab a fistful of its shirt to keep it in place, your breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps.

Again.

The edges of your vision blur and darken, narrowing until there’s nothing but the thing beneath you and the pounding of your own heartbeat.

Again.

Your knuckles split, skin tearing against bone and cartilage, but the pain doesn’t register. All you feel is rage, fear, and the desperate, consuming need to destroy.

Again.

The thing’s face is unrecognizable now, a mess of blood and shattered bone, but it doesn’t matter. Somewhere, deep in the back of your mind, a voice whispers that it’s already dead, that you’ve already won, but you can’t hear it over the rush of blood in your ears.

Again.

A voice cuts through the fog, deep and desperate.

“Stop!”

You don’t stop. You can’t.

“Goddamn it, stop!”

A pair of hands grab your shoulders, jerking you backward. The sudden force pulls you out of your frenzy, the world around you snapping back into focus like a rubber band.

You blink, gasping for air as the sound of the river fades, replaced by the quiet of the supermarket, the ringing in your ears. The thing that was beneath you is no longer the creature that attacked you. It’s the raider, his face a bloody, mangled mess, his body limp and motionless.

Joel is crouched beside you, his hands gripping your shoulders tightly, his eyes wide and brimming with shock and concern.

“Hey,” his voice is soft, smooth, like a balm. “You’re all right. It’s over. Look at me—it’s over.”

But it’s not over. Not for you. The river, the creature, the blood, it all lingers in the back of your mind, travelling through your bloodstream, settling in your bones. Your chest heaves, and your hands are trembling, still curled into fists stained with blood that isn’t yours.

Joel’s voice anchors you, pulling you back piece by piece.

“Breathe,” he commands, his tone softening just enough to cut through the haze. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

You try to obey. You really do. But the air feels thin, your lungs refusing to expand. You blink at him, trying to focus on the lines of his face, the familiar weight of his presence, anything to steady yourself. But it’s like the world around you has lost its clarity, dissolving into a smear of color and sound that won’t settle.

And then there’s the blood.

It’s everywhere. Thick, congealing streaks of crimson cling to your hands, your sleeves, the cracked linoleum beneath you. Your knuckles are raw, split wide open, the skin peeling back to expose pale flashes of bone.

You should be in agony, but there’s nothing. Just a buzzing numbness that makes everything feel unreal.

Your breath hitches as your stomach churns, bile rising to the back of your throat. Joel’s voice fades to background noise, his steady presence eclipsed by the smell, the coppery tang of fresh blood mingled with the sharp, sour stench of fear and sweat.

Your eyes dart frantically, searching for something to hold on to. That’s when you see it.

An overturned sunglass display lies a few feet away, one of its mirrored panels catching a slant of dim light. The reflection is murky at first, fractured by scratches and smudges. But you can make out your form, crouched on the ground, shaking, your arms slick with gore.

You crawl toward it, drawn by some morbid compulsion, even as every cell in your body screams for you to look away.

And then you see your face.

Only, it isn’t your face.

The features are wrong, distorted. The hollow eyes that stare back at you gleam with a feral light. The streaks of blood across your cheeks look like war paint, and your mouth is twisted into something unrecognizable, a grotesque snarl frozen in time.

The creature staring back at you is the one from your nightmares. The one that wore your face.

You scramble back, nearly slipping on the blood pooling beneath you. Your breath comes in short, ragged bursts now, and your head aches with the effort of trying to make sense of what you’re seeing.

“No,” you rasp, a tremor in the silence. “No, no, no.”

You claw at your own face, desperate to wipe away the blood, to erase the reflection burned into your vision. But when you look back at the mirror, it’s still there. The monster, the thing, staring back at you with the same horrified recognition.

Joel watches you, the way your breathing has turned erratic, your hands trembling even more violently than before.

“Hey.” He says, moving closer, placing a firm hand on your shoulder, trying to anchor you again. “What’s goin’ on? Talk to me.”

But you can’t.

Because how do you explain it to him? How do you tell Joel that the thing you saw wasn’t just in your head? That you’ve become something else, something wrong?

“I’m…” You falter, voice barely more than a croak. You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence.

Joel kneels in front of you now, his dark eyes searching yours, his expression hard to read, somewhere between frustration and worry. “You’re what?” he presses.

Your fingers clench into fists, nails digging into the raw flesh of your palms, but you don’t feel that either.

“I’m not—” The words catch in your throat, a strangled sob threatening to break free. “I’m not me anymore.”

Joel’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. You can tell he’s trying to figure out what to say, trying to piece together the puzzle of your unraveling.

But you don’t need his reassurance. You don’t deserve it.

The image from the mirror is seared into your brain, a truth too visceral to push away.

You’re not human anymore. Whatever you were before the bite, before the changes, before all this…

She’s gone.

What’s left is decay wrapped in skin, rot hiding behind bloodshot eyes.

And maybe Joel knows it, too. Maybe that’s why he looks at you the way he does. Not with hatred, not with anger, but with that guarded distance that tells you he doesn’t quite know what to make of you anymore.

You’re not a person anymore. Not really.

You’re just another broken thing he’s lugging along, too stubborn to leave behind.

…

“Alright, how’s that feel?”

Joel’s voice is clipped, like he’s trying to keep himself in check. He pulls the gauze taut around your hand, gently tugging the ends into a knot. His hands are steady, sure, but yours are trembling.

The pain has set in now that the adrenaline’s burned away, sharp and relentless, digging into the broken skin of your knuckles and radiating up your arm. You barely register it. Pain feels distant, muted, like it belongs to someone else.

You hadn’t made a sound while he cleaned the wounds. Hadn’t winced, hadn’t cried out. Not even when the antiseptic burned like fire. All you’d done was sit there, staring at the wall, silent tears streaking your face as he worked.

Joel had noticed, of course. You’re certain he had. But he hadn’t said anything about it. Maybe it was mercy. Maybe it was pity. Maybe it was something else entirely, that you didn’t want to name because it would be too painful.

You pull your hand back when he finishes, flexing your fingers experimentally. Blood is already seeping through the gauze, fresh spots of red blooming against the stark white. The movement sends a bolt of pain shooting up your arm, but you don’t flinch.

You’re perched on the edge of the bathtub in the dilapidated house you found last night. The room reeks of mildew and old rot, the tiles cracked and stained. Joel’s First Aid kit lies open on the floor beside him, its contents scattered. You glance at it and take stock.

The antiseptic bottle is nearly empty. The gauze roll is down to its last few feet. The last pack of sterile wipes lies crumpled near the sink. Joel leans over, grabbing the bottle of antibiotics, the pills rattling as he shoves it into your hands.

“Take a couple now and—”

“No,” you interrupt, shaking your head. “No, that’s fine.” You hold the bottle out to him, refusing to meet his eyes.

“The hell do you mean?” His brow furrows.

“I-I’ve used up enough of this already.” You gesture vaguely to the dwindling supplies. “I’ll be fine.”

Joel huffs out a short, disbelieving laugh, leaning back on his heels as he stares at you. The weight of his gaze feels unbearable, like it’s peeling back every layer of you, exposing every raw nerve.

“You tryin’ to get an infection?”

“I’ll just… wash them in the river,” you whisper, shaking your head. “It’ll be fine.”

Joel exhales hard through his nose, his frustration palpable. If this were any other day, you might have smiled, might have teased him for how easily you could get under his skin. His sighs, his grumbles, his sharp comments, they’d become so familiar, almost comforting in their constancy.

But this isn’t any other day, and you aren’t that person anymore.

Joel doesn’t take the bottle back. He stays crouched there in front of you, his broad shoulders tense, his jaw working as he stares at you with those dark, unreadable eyes. You can feel his frustration radiating off him like heat, but there’s something else beneath it, heavy and quiet and damning.

"Take the damn pills," he says, and his tone leaves no room for arguments.

You shake your head, your hand curling painfully into the edge of the bathtub as if you need the anchor. "You’ve already wasted too much on me. I’ll be fine."

“Fine?” He’s exasperated now, exhaling harshly through his nose. “You call this fine?” He gestures at your bloodied hands, the bruises blooming across your skin, the half-empty first-aid kit scattered around you both.

You turn your head, eyes still refusing to meet his. Your eyes fall on the blood streaked floor, your own blood mixing with the dried, years-old stains of the previous occupants.

“You wanna talk about what happened back there?” He asks.

That gets your attention. Your head snaps up, quick as a slap, eyes searching his face.

“Ain’t nothin’ to talk about,” you say, mimicking his words to you last night. “Isn’t that right, Joel?”

Joel’s jaw clenches at your words, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He leans back, his hands braced on his knees, as if trying to steady himself. His eyes flick over your face, searching, but for what, you don’t know.

"You think you’re funny?" he mutters, his tone edged with frustration. "You think throwin’ my words back at me means somethin’?"

You shrug, forcing yourself to look at him now, though your chest feels tight and pinched. "It means you don’t get to ask questions you don’t want answered."

Joel’s brow furrows, his eyes narrowing. “This ain’t about me, kid. You froze back there. You could’ve gotten yourself killed—could’ve gotten me killed. You don’t wanna talk about that? Fine. But don’t sit here actin’ like you’re fine, ’cause we both know that’s a goddamn lie.”

The air between you feels suffocating, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. You don’t have the words to explain what happened back in the supermarket, the way your mind had turned against you, dragging you back to that moment by the river. The way the raider’s hands on you had felt like the infected all over again, the cold terror flooding your veins until you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

“I froze,” you admit, the words brittle and sharp, like broken glass. “I know that. I know I could’ve gotten us both killed. You don’t have to remind me.”

Joel’s expression softens, but only a bit. He sits back on his heels, his posture shifting as if he’s trying to rein himself in. "I’m not remindin’ you to make you feel bad. I’m remindin’ you ’cause we can’t afford for it to happen again. You hear me?"

You nod mutely, biting down on the inside of your cheek to keep from saying something you’ll regret. The truth is, you don’t trust yourself anymore. You’ve been through countless fights before, stared down dangers that should’ve broken you, and yet this — this had stopped you cold.

Joel watches you for a long moment, his gaze heavy. Finally, he exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Look,” he says, quieter now, “I don’t know what’s goin’ on in your head. But whatever it is, you don’t gotta carry it alone. You don’t gotta sit there and pretend like you’re some lost cause, either. You ain’t.”

The words hit you square in the chest, lungs constricting painfully. You don’t deserve them, not after what you’ve cost him, not after the way you froze.

“I don’t get why you’re doing this,” you say softly. “Why you’re wasting all this on me.”

Joel frowns, leaning forward. “Wastin’ it? What makes you think this is a waste?”

You don’t respond, can’t respond, because what is there to say? Of course it’s a waste. After what just happened, after the mess you’ve made of everything, what else could it be, if not a waste?

“Why do you even care, Joel?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. Joel’s jaw tightens, and he shifts his weight, sitting back on his heels as he stares at you.

“Why do I care?” he repeats. “You think I patch people up for fun? Think I’d travel with someone across the goddamn country ‘cause I don’t care?”

You flinch at the edge in his tone, guilt twisting in your gut. “You shouldn’t have to,” you murmur. “Not for me.”

Joel freezes, his eyes narrowing. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lower your gaze to your lap, where your bandaged hands rest, trembling.

“Look at me,” he commands.

You don’t move.

“Look at me,” he repeats, and this time, there’s something dark in his tone that makes you lift your head despite yourself.

His eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, you think he might see right through you, see the plan already forming in your mind, the way you’ve been counting down the hours until dawn.

“You’re not doin’ this,” he says firmly. “You’re not givin’ up, not on my watch.”

“I’m not giving up,” you lie, forcing a weak smile. “I just… I’m not worth all this, Joel. The supplies, the effort—you could’ve used them on yourself. You should’ve.”

His expression darkens, his jaw clenching hard enough that you can see the muscle twitch in his cheek. “You don’t get to decide that,” he says roughly. “If I don’t get to make decisions for you, then you sure as hell don’t get to make ‘em for me. You think I’d be doin’ all this if I didn’t think you were worth it?”

You blink, startled by the intensity in his voice.

“You deserve better,” you whisper, barely audible.

Joel’s expression shifts, his frustration giving way to something softer, like hurt. “Better than what? Someone who’s still here, still fightin’, even after everything?”

You shake your head, tears threatening to spill over. “You don’t understand—”

“You’re right,” he cuts you off, his tone sharper now. “I don’t. I don’t understand why you’re sittin’ here actin’ like you don’t matter, like you’re some kinda burden. You think that’s your call to make? It’s not. Not to me.”

The conviction in his voice sends a crack through the wall you’ve been building around yourself. You open your mouth to respond, but the words won’t come. Instead, you just sit there, staring at him, the weight of his care pressing down on you in a way that feels unbearable.

“Get some rest,” Joel says finally, standing and gathering the scattered supplies. His voice is quieter now,softer. “I don’t know when we’ll have a place like this to rest our heads again.”

You nod silently, but your decision is already made.

As he leaves the room, you let out a shaky breath, your hands gripping the edge of the bathtub. There’s an ache in your gut, a strangled cry desperate to break free. But you push it down, deep into that darkness inside of you that swallows things whole.

…

You and Joel settle into your sleeping bags in the master bedroom, the rain beginning as a soft pattering against the cracked window pane.

The light drizzle quickens into a steady downpour, and somewhere above, water begins to drip through a crack in the ceiling, the rhythm regular and almost hypnotic. Joel is already asleep, his breathing deep and even, broken only by soft, rumbling snores.

You shift up, glancing at him. Snoring was a sound you hardly ever heard from Joel. He wasn’t one to sleep deeply, wasn’t one to sleep much at all. In all the time you’d been traveling together, Joel had always taken the lion’s share of the watch, insisting on staying awake while you slept.

No matter how many times you argued about it, told him he needed to rest, Joel would just shrug it off like it was nothing. Like he could keep pushing himself forever. You’d wake to sunlight creeping through the heavy tree cover, rested and groggy, only to find him perched under the same tree he was sitting under when you fell asleep, shotgun resting in his lap like a newborn, his dark eyes scanning the horizon like a hawk.

“Don’t know how you expect me to pull my weight if you don’t let me take a shift,” you’d grumble at him, stretching out stiff muscles.

He’d just grunt in response, the corners of his mouth tugging downward, as if the very idea of letting someone else carry part of the burden was offensive. But that was Joel. Ever the protector, ever the watchdog.

Ever the giver.

It wasn’t that you took advantage of him. God, no. Joel wasn’t a man you could manipulate, not even if you tried. He wasn’t stupid. He had this uncanny ability to sniff out selfishness in people, to see through whatever mask someone wore. You pulled your weight. You scavenged, fought, and bled for the both of you, and Joel knew that. He trusted you to do your part.

But Joel… he just couldn’t help himself. He gave, over and over, like it was written into the fabric of who he was. Like he didn’t know how to be any other way. He had to protect, had to provide. It was as much a part of him as the scars on his hands or the weight in his eyes.

When you met him, he’d been gruff, reluctant to involve you on smuggling runs, keeping you at arm’s length like you still carried some unspoken threat. But somewhere along the way, his walls cracked. You didn’t know when it had happened exactly, but you could see it in the small things. The extra food he’d quietly save for you, the way he’d give you his coat on cold nights even when he was freezing himself, the way his shoulders would relax a little when he caught you smiling.

Once Joel decided you were worth saving, it was over. He was in it for the long haul, no matter how much it cost him.

And for a while, you had been the luckiest person in what was left of the world to be on the receiving end of that.

You lie there, listening to the rain hammering against the roof, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. Joel’s face, even in sleep, carries the weight of the world, the lines carved deep into his brow and around his mouth. You wonder how many years he’s shaved off his life just by taking so much of the load onto himself. You wonder how much more he’ll let himself give before he has nothing left.

And then there’s you.

Was it any wonder you fell for the man? How could you not? Joel Miller could be infuriating, stubborn, and guarded to the point of madness, but beneath all of that was something so rare, so utterly good, that it made you feel things you didn’t think you had the capacity for anymore.

He’d never see himself that way, of course. Joel didn’t do anything for thanks or recognition. He didn’t even seem to realize how much of himself he gave away to the people he let in.

And that’s what made it harder, what made it unbearable to stay.

Because while Joel gave and gave, you took. Not intentionally, not maliciously, but you’d taken all the same. And in the quiet moments like this, lying awake while he slept for once, you can’t shake the feeling that one day, he’ll realize you weren’t worth what he’d given.

That’s why you have to leave. Before he wakes, before you can see the hurt in his eyes. Because if Joel knew what you were planning, he’d never let you go. And you’re not sure you’d have the strength to leave if he asked you to stay.

The first peals of thunder rumble low in the distance, rolling closer, shaking the house’s already unstable foundation. The storm has settled in for the night now, and the rain pounds against the windows, dripping steadily through the crack in the ceiling. Lightning flashes, illuminating the room in bursts of pale light.

Your eyes flick to Joel, stretched out on his sleeping bag, his head tilted a little to the side. He stirs as the thunder rolls again, a quiet grumble slipping from his lips before he settles back into a deep sleep.

For a moment, you falter. Your resolve weakens under the weight of it all. How many times has he protected you? Stood between you and danger, taken hits meant for you? How many times has he let you into the parts of himself he keeps hidden from the world? And now you’re about to repay all of that by leaving him in the middle of the night, slipping away like a thief.

You force the thoughts away, swallowing the lump in your throat. You have to do this.

Moving as quietly as you can, you rise from your sleeping bag, the damp chill of the house settling into your bones. You wince as your knees crack, freezing in place as Joel shifts again. His breathing evens out a second later, and you exhale shakily.

You gently place the flannel he gave you that day at the river by his feet, carefully folded. A gesture of goodwill, a thanks for all the help he gave you in your time together. A compensation for all that you took.

The mattress against the door is your next hurdle. Joel had shoved it there earlier, pressing it tight against the warped wood to keep the two of you safe. Now, as you grip the edge and begin to slide it away, you realize just how heavy it is. You move it inch by inch, pausing every few seconds to glance back at Joel, your heart pounding every time the mattress lets out a low scrape against the floor.

Finally, you’ve cleared enough space to open the door. You reach for the knob, turning it carefully, slowly, until it gives. The hinges groan as the door swings open just enough for you to slip through.

Before you leave, you glance back one last time. Joel is still asleep, his face lit briefly by another flash of lightning. He looks peaceful now. It’s a rare sight, one you’ve only seen a handful of times, and you try to commit it to memory. This has to be enough, you tell yourself. It has to be enough to know that he’ll be okay without you. Better off, really.

You pull the door closed behind you, muffling the sound as best you can. Deliberately, you step over the creaky floorboards in the hall, each step measured and cautious. The house feels colder now, emptier somehow. The storm outside is deafening in comparison to the muted quiet inside.

When you reach the front door, the chill of the night air seeps through the cracks. You pause for a moment, your hand on the handle, as the rain lashes against the windows. You hesitate, something pulling at you, urging you to turn back.

But you don’t. Or can’t, or won’t, you don’t quite know.

You step out into the rain-soaked, unforgiving world, letting the door close softly behind you. The cold rain hits you instantly, soaking through your clothes, clinging to your skin. You pull your jacket tighter around you and press forward into the darkness.

Every step feels heavier than the last, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop. Because if you do, you’ll lose what little strength you have left.

Behind you, the house grows smaller and smaller, until it disappears completely into the shadows of the storm. And with it, you leave behind the only safety you’ve known in a long, long time.

Taglist:

@eviispunk

@javierpenaispunk

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #tlou joel #joel miller fanfic #joel tlou #joel x reader #joel the last of us #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #tlou fanfiction #tlou hbo #tlou #the last of us #fanfiction

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easytrooper · 1 month ago

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May 2025 Fan Fiction Recommendations

⟢ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐝: Joel Miller, Javier Peña, Frankie Morales

Joel Miller:

Title: truth or dare Summary: a harmless game of truth or dare ends with you tied in a certain mysterious neighbor's garage. Warnings: Explicit Content 18+, no outbreak au, dubcon, rope bondage, humiliation, begging, face fucking, sir kink, pet names used (little girl), anal play, rough sex, age gap, writing on skin with a sharpie, unprotected sex (LINK)

Title: clear blue morning Summary: the bed is cold when you wake up. it usually is — joel’s been an early riser since the moment you met him, but you still roll over onto his side of the bed with a huff of annoyance in search of that long lost body heat. you’re used to it, you are, that still doesn’t stop the odd feeling in your throat, the impatient clench of your fingers. Warnings: Explicit Content 18+, Jackson! Joel, post s2e2, established relationship, age gap, erectile dysfunction, female masturbation, partially clothed sex, unprotected sex, daddy kink (LINK)

Title: rest stop Summary: As you and Joel fulfill Tess’ dying wish of being Ellie to the Fireflies, frustrations grow. It’s been days since you’ve been intimate with Joel. While Ellie sleeps, you decide you can’t wait anymore. Warnings: Explicit Content 18+, established relationship, implied age gap, unprotected sex, car sex, risky sex, semi-public sex, size kink if you squint (LINK)

Title: claim Summary: You've been driving Joel crazy for the last four days. And now you have something he wants. Warnings: Explicit Content 18+, Boston QZ! Joel, Dark! Joel, dubcon, age gap, somnophilia (LINK)

Title: something wild and unruly Summary: At Madame Aurelie's Secret Garden, men pay for beautiful courtesans trained in pleasure to give them whatever they want. And all Joel Miller, infamous outlaw and gunslinger, ever seems to want from you is a warm bath and quiet conversation. Warnings: Explicit Content 18+, Wild West/Gunslinger AU, rdr2 core, sex work, bathing, hand job, pining, insecurity, angst (LINK)

Title: Cherry Drabble Summary: You prove to Joel you have no regrets. Warnings: Explicit Content 18+, no outbreak AU, established relationship, former sex work discussed, age gap, showering together, minor angst, mentions of health issues, age, and fear of death, insecurity about age, use of pet names (Cherry) (LINK)

Francisco Morales:

Title: and then we grew up. Summary: frankie morales was your best friend, but he disappeared from your life without an explanation. years later, he finds you in a bar after your life falls part. is it too late for the two of you to patch things up? Warnings: Explicit Content 18+, childhood friends, angst, reader just broke up with their partner (LINK)

Title: learning curves Summary: Frankie Morales is going back to school, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Warnings: Explicit Content 18+, age gap, plus size reader, angst, insecurity due to weight/body size, body shaming, use of pet names, M/M/F threesome (ft. Benny Miller), double penetration, anal sex, butt plug, dom Frankie, subby Benny, bi-curious Frankie and Benny, multi pov (LINK)

Javier Peña:

Title: reputation Summary: Javier Peña is your boss, and you're his favorite assistant. You know better than to get involved with this womanizing DEA agent, but that doesn't stop you from thinking about him every second of every day. He doesn't give up easily, and neither do you. Warnings: Explicit Content 18+, season three Javier, workplace romance, angst, infidelity/cheating, misunderstanding trope, insecurity, Javi lashes out when he’s upset, make-up sex, spanking, (LINK)

Title: going slow Summary: When you're dating Javier Peña, and sex hurts. Warnings: Explicit Content 18+, painful sex, angst, insecurity, past trauma due to painful sex, hurt/comfort, fluff, thigh riding, multi pov (LINK)

#fic rec #joel miller #frankie morales #javier peña #ppcu #ppcu fandom #ppcu fanfiction #ppcu fan fic

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omgwhatchloe · 1 year ago

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REASONS WHY HAVING SOME RDR2 CHARACTERS AS YOUR PASSENGER IN YOUR CAR SUCKS:

Charles: Only talks to points out every single animal he sees. Other than that, it’s just silence unless you start the conversation or you’re Arthur. Oh but trust me, he wants the AUX. He’s just not gunna ask.

John: Either demands the AUX cord or just connects it anyway, then proceeds to be musically inconsiderate with what he plays. You despise this song with every ounce of your being? Too bad. This song reminds you of your lowest point? Suck it up buttercup. This was playing in the car when you crashed and killed the person in the passenger seat? Womp womp.

Dutch: Seems to think it’s his car. In fact, he feels completely free to change the music, turns up the heat as much as he pleases, winds the windows up and down, moves his seat constantly etc etc.

Reverend Swanson and Mary-Beth: Car sick. So very car sick. Your two options when driving them anywhere is the sound of heavy breathing with the sounds of the highway being blasted in through the open window, or bags rustling with the sound of puking and groaning. Trust me, they’d rather have walked as well.

Javier: Awful navigator. It’s fine when you know where you’re going, but absolutely awful when you need navigation. Half the time, you look over and he’s gone off the navigation app and is playing subway surfers and texting. The other half of the time, he’s misreading the directions then yelling at YOU. Not to mention it’s completely unsurprising to wonder why you’ve been driving for so long then find he’s clicked on the entire wrong destination without a second thought.

Sean: Acts like he’s never eaten before in his life as soon as he gets into the car. Sees a Wendy’s? He’s suddenly starving. Burger King? He hasn’t eaten in three days. KFC? He’ll pay you back, he swears! In fact, the man has absolutely no problem being late for anything if you stop for food. You could be on the way to Davey’s funeral, already running late and suddenly pull into the Krispy Kreme carpark and you would not hear a single protest from him.

Micah: Yaps a whole lot of waffle about how he’s all this n all that to the point you don’t even know what he’s saying anymore and neither does he. Also enjoys flipping random people off and yelling shit out of the window. Expect to be chased by an angry driver for at least 12 miles.

Bill: Eats and then just throws his trash on the floor without a single second thought. If you ask him to pick it up, he will, but not without angrily grumbling and snatching it up. Is in a bad mood for about 2 minutes before he realises he wants to yap so does.

Karen, Uncle, Abigail and Sean: Distracts the driver. Whether it’s with yapping or loud videos or drinking or messing with the music volume, they somehow keep it up from the start of the drive right to the end.

Hosea: Puts his feet up and puts his seat back like he’s in bed. Just won’t sit normally. Will give you a ‘look’ when you ask him to put them down.

Lenny: Makes things awkward, because the first thing he does is comment on the dirtiness of your car then looks extremely shocked and uncomfortable at himself for saying that for about 7 seconds before pulling out his phone and facetiming Sean for the whole drive and giving you the same looks Hosea does when you try to speak to him. When not on the phone, he tends to respond with shrugs and “Okay then,” while folding him arms and staring out of the window. Seems to be in an awful mood until he’s out of the car. He hates car rides if it’s not with his favourite people.

Molly: Acts like you can’t drive. Struggling to see what’s right in front of you? Molly’s got your back! Seriously, she will yell at you to stop at the red light you had already seen 7 seconds ago and started to slow for. Old woman crossing (while you’re already stopped)? She will yell at you not to go so loud you debate kicking her out and making her get her own car, since she knows so much.

Tilly and Strauss: Tries to get you to speed. It’s like they’ve never heard of laws before, and will insist you ‘go faster’ even though your way is blocked by other cars. It’s painfully obvious they both can’t drive and have never had to pay for gas money.

Miss Grimshaw: Absolutely disgusted by your car and wants to make that very clear. It wouldn’t be surprising if halfway through, she started to clean it herself.

Jack: Really really really wants to press that horn. You’d find it cute at first, but so goddamn annoying when your car starts honking in the middle of a busy crossing. It’s like a constant slap-fight except you’re pushing his hands away every-time they come for the horn.

Arthur: Constantly asking to pull over. He’ll casually say “stop here” as if you’re a taxi, not to mention you’re in the middle of nowhere on the highway and you really don’t understand what a stranger mission means. Commonly, you have to explain things like how you’re already an hour late and you literally do not have the room to drive that family of five that’s broken down anywhere, nor can you stop at an empty warehouse and potentially get arrested for trespassing because he wants to explore.

Kieran: Terrified when you go slightly over the speed limit. He acts like he’s in an F1 race with no seatbelt being hung out of the window.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption two #arthur morgan #red dead headcanons #headcanons #fandom #john marston #dutch van der linde #hosea matthews #sean macguire #lenny summers #uncle #abigail roberts #jack marston #dutch rdr2

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meowxtastic · 2 months ago

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Micah Bell Headcanons!

micah isnt my favorite character BUT he's been on my mind recently ^_^ keep in mind these are just my opinions !

◆ If he had an s/o, his love language would be physical touch and acts of service. With physical touch, it'd mostly be things in passing.

exi: Squeezing your waist while walking by, lingering super close, stuff like that

With acts of service, it'd mostly be subtle things. Complaining about running low on ammo? Guess what you find by your tent the next day!!!

◆ This man has almost no ticklish bone in his body. If someone tried to tickle him (which, lets be honest, would never happen), he'd just let out a gruff chuckle and roll his eyes

Elaborating on that, the spot he IS ticklish in is the most random area. (Ahem. I don't have a specific example in mind but whatever)

◆ He babies baylock SOOO much. In front of the other gang members, its not as extreme, but in private? Baylock is getting pats and treats GALORE.

◆ insomniac. whenever I play rdr2, i never stay up late in the camp, so I dont know how accurate this one is. nonetheless, I imagine he stays up late most nights, either drinking or cleaning his weapons.

It's always been this way, so he's more than used to it. When he does sleep, its deep- he's still and he snores

◆ Allergies. He sniffles a lot during spring. Despite this, he hates whenever someone else sniffles too much. He doesnt like the sound, its a MAJOR pet peeve.

◆ He broke his knee in his 30's. Considering medicine in the 1800's, it never healed properly. Because of this, he's prone to being sore.

◆ Modern HC!! He has both a motercycle and a nice, older car model from the 60's or 70's. He doesnt mind people eating in his car, but you won't hear the end of it if you make a mess. He also does the dad hand thing. (Holding out his hand and expecting food)

◆ i'm not an expert on his backstory, so please correct me if this is WAYYY off, but I have a head canon for how he and Amos (his brother) grew apart :3

Micah has always lived for thrill. Amos WAS the same way. During the time where this was a shared trait, they rode and plundered together.

However, after a particuarlly gory heist, Amos realized he needed to straighten up. This was only later renforced when he met his future wife. Going back to 'wanting more,' this is when he decided he wanted to move to California.

When Amos talked about it with Micah, Micah was NOTTT happy, obviously. He thought Amos was getting soft and saw him as weak. He saw it as a betrayal to their bond. Moving with some woman to California of all places? Micah thought it was ridiculous.

From there, they fought and parted ways. They havent seen eachother since- the only contact being through a few letters (as seen in game). Micah hates Amos. Amos, being a religious man, doesnt HATE Micah, but would kill him if he got too close (again, as stated in game)

#rdr2 #rdr2 community #rdr2 headcanons #red dead redemption 2 #micah bell #rdr2 micah #red dead redemption micah #headcanon #this is my opinion

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teleeportedbread2233 · 4 months ago

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Funger headcanons part 11 (god this series is getting long)

First off some regular group headcanons.

I think after Le'kill himself left the girl with D'arce and everyone else most of them had NO IDEA how to take care of child except for Ragnvaldr and possibly Nosramus, I think they were probably given the girl when she was like 2 or 3 so pretty young and she has NO IDEA who her real parents are.

Where does every work in the modern Au I guess I'm making now.

Cahara would say to be an erotic dancer as a joke but I think he wants to either work in Finance or something to fix damage buildings or help children in broken homes.

Celeste would still work at the brothel until Cahara gets enough money to buy her, I think she'd become a computer scientist or something related to machines.

Enki would work either at a library or as a writer cause in this universe the skin bibles or fiction books.

Ragnvaldr would do just about anything like walking dogs and odd jobs around town cause that's just who he is.

D'arce probably works as a fencing instructor with a history obsession.

Nosramus just has money, don't ask why.

Backstory's in this Au fr fr.

Enki is still kind of the same his family treated him like shit, loved his sister more than him and all that and probably treated him poorly so one day he just left and never came back.

Cahara grew up poor and basically had the uncle rdr2 backstory, growing up on the streets by himself from a young age doing anything to get by which would explain his hyper sexual behaviour and generally how weird he is.

D'arce is just a rich bitch who's deeply in love with Le'gay (I forgor her backstory).

Ragnvaldr would still lose his family but it'd probably be from something a bit less brutal (I have no idea how less brutal) like a house fire or a car accident, all I know is that it'd be very traumatic and unexpected.

Nosramus is just a silly guy.

Now this is the end of part 11 but part 12 will be out soon with some funger 2 headcanons, also I was thinking of doing some OC posts comment if you want those cause I would love to do them.

#fear and hunger #silly #d'arce cataliss #d'arce fear and hunger #enki ankarian #enki fear and hunger #cahara fear and hunger #fear and hunger enki #ragnvaldr fear and hunger #the girl fear and hunger #fear and hunger celeste #celeste fear and hunger #nosramus #nosramus fear and hunger #the girl #cahara #ragnvaldr #funger #enki

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nthspecialll · 6 months ago

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Forgive the rant but I need the people to know that Rockstar, even though they have a bunch of Slavic employees who worked on RDR2, apparently cannot do research on how our last names are pronounced.

You remember Marko Dragić? He was clearly based on Nikola Tesla, a Serbian scientist from Croatia (there's some discourse about whether he should be seen as Serbian or Croatian but that isn't important right now). What IS important, is that the way Marko's actor (a man who isn't from the Balkans btw and doesn't have Slavic roots as far as I can tell) wasn't told how to properly pronounce Marko's last name. It should be Dragich (D like in day, A like in car, G like in get and Ć is just a very soft CH sound). Instead the actor says Jrejeek.

It would've been fine had Arthur mispronounced his name, but for the man himself to mispronounce HIS OWN name? Hell no. And they did the same thing back in GTA4 with Niko Bellic (that one is somehow even worse).

Anyway, sorry again for the long ask, but I haven't seen anyone else talking about this and I needed to get it off my chest.

SPEAK YOUR TRUTH🗣🗣🗣

I don't think you want me to elaborate on that but rather just to use my platform, so go off

#rdr2 arthur #arthur morgan #red dead redemption community #red dead redemption 2 #john marston #red dead fandom #rdr2 community #rdr2 #red dead redemption two #rdr john #ask #asks #answered asks #nthspecialll asks #nthspecialll

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fruitmilkshake · 4 months ago

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....soo.... today i started playing Red dead redemption online and i really enjoyed making my character... and i decided to make another rdr2 oc with my rdro character :)

So.. for the name, i was thinking on something nice for name, something like.... Tessa or Violet... or maybe i can mix it like 'Tessa-violet' (yes, like the singer 👍🏻) and for her last name... i was thinking "McClain" or something like that.

If i'm not wrong; i made her 19 y/o (just as a fact 👍🏻).

As for backstory; i was already thinking on something since the first minute i entered in the game :D, like; since my character was prisoner in the Sisika Penitentiary, i was thinking that she was blamed for murdering her alcoholic step-dad (which is true), but what they don't know, is that she did it in self-defense when he tried to kill her and her mother on one of his daily drinking nights. And as for how did she got in the Van der linde gang, i was thinking on something like a small assault to the car she was in when she was being transported to somewhere else (i haven't thought where tho, probably another penitentiary) and since she didn't had another place to go after the other prison members and the cops escaped from the assault, Dutch allowed her to join the gang since he felt pity for her (i would feel pity for her too, she looks like a wet ferret ;_;).

So... just as a random thought that i was having as i was playing some missions in the game... i would probably bestfriend her or ship her with Lenny... because... please, imagine them together... and tell me that it wouldn't be cute to see them getting close to each other as she gets used to the gang/camp :D (yes, i know, i'm weird 👍🏻)

So.. yeah, That's all.. Oh! Yeah, i forgot; her horse is a male, and his name is Callus :)... i don't know why i'm mentioning that.. but, yeah, with that, that's all, i will probably post more content about her and Michelle (my other rdr2) with some ideas that i have for them 👌🏻

Bye!

#rdr2 oc #rdr2 online #rdr2 original character #red dead redemption 2 oc #red dead redemption online #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr oc #rdr ocs #rdr online #rdr2 community

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coltermorning · 14 days ago

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A Standing Offer Pt. 2 (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: When your car ends up with a minor problem, you’re forced to interact with Arthur again.

Author’s Notes: Part two of this one.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, eventual smut

AO3 Link

A Standing Offer

Word count: 3418

Part Two

“That aren’t gonna buff out, Artur.”

Arthur was doing his best to ignore the Irishman at his side, sweat beginning to bead across his forehead for his efforts. He was trying hard to get your bumper back in working order, but it was proving more difficult than he’d thought.

“What is it they call insanity? Doing the same ting over again and expecting different results?”

“Quit while you’re ahead,” Arthur grumbled.

“Exactly what you should doing there.”

Arthur stood so fast that Sean jumped back to avoid him. Arthur laughed at him. “What you so jumpy for? I’m just getting another cover for this buffer.”

“Oh, sure you are,” Sean said. “Very funny.”

“Unless you think I have reason to beat your teeth in,” Arthur suggested.

“Me? Never,” Sean answered, following Arthur along as he made for the part he was looking for.

“Shit, there’s reason enough to give you a good beating every day,” Arthur said, scanning the shelves on the wall. He found the right cover for the buffer machine and took it off the shelf, feeling along it to see if it would do the trick. He wasn’t quite pleased, but it was worth trying at least.

“You always this nasty toward your friends?” Sean teased.

Arthur finally turned to him. “To my coworker who won’t go work his job, keeping me from mine in the process? Yes.”

“Ahh, you love me though. Besides, I know what it is. You’re just hung up on that girl. What’s her name? Ruby?”

Arthur really could have punched him then, and John and Javier too for ever mentioning you in the first place.

“I ain’t hung up on anyone. Now go do the job you’re hired to do before I fire you myself.”

Sean let out a bark of a laugh. “You wish you could, English.” But, thankfully, he let Arthur be and went back to the old Chevy he had been assigned a week ago.

Even though Arthur’s shadow was gone, he found himself even more aggravated when he continued buffing out the bumper. The breaks in the plastic that resulted when the piece bent back into its proper shape weren’t going anywhere.

Arthur put the buffer down and rocked back on his knees, hands on his hips. This weren’t good. Either you’d need a new bumper, or you would have to come up here and confirm that you were all right with the damage. The second one was cheaper, but Arthur wanted no reason for the boys at the shop to keep ribbing him over you. It didn’t make any goddamn sense, as far as he was concerned. John and Javier were the two idiots who had cornered you in that club. He’d barely even spoken to you in comparison. But no, all he’d heard since was how sweet on you he was, volunteering to fix up your car cheap. He wished he’d never even offered.

Truth be told, Arthur didn’t quite know why he’d done it. There was the obvious, that he felt bad for all the damage his truck had caused that you would have to pay for. But beyond that, he’d told himself the minute he left the Rouge that he would block all thought of you off. True, he couldn’t keep his eyes off you that night, and also true, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you’d spoken to him. But it was your job to act as you had toward him. He didn’t think he’d ever have reason to see you again anyway. When he got out of his truck in all that buzzing traffic, the last person he’d expected was you, shouting at some poor girl enough to make her look like she was shrinking into her clothes. He was so amused by your change in behavior that he’d told himself right then and there to be done with it all. He couldn’t fall for a stripper who had only paid him any mind because she was getting paid to do so. So, he’d told you the damage, determined to leave it there, then the words that he would help you came spilling out of his mouth before he could stop them. And he’d regretted them every moment since.

Arthur wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his arm, knowing either way, the shape the car was in at least warranted a call. Best to get it over with sooner rather than later.

A number you didn’t have saved in your phone crossed your screen, distracting you from your reality TV. You would normally damn whoever it was and ignore it, but a lot of random numbers had been calling you since moving and starting a new job. You groaned loudly and picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Y/N? This is Arthur.”

Well, well. You didn’t like the excitement that bolted through you one bit.

“Hey,” you said simply, not wanting to make this some big deal. Simple phone call, back to your show.

“I got a problem with your car.”

Just perfect. Couldn’t you have one relaxing day?

“What is it?”

“I got the front bumper back in place, but the breaks in the plastic won’t buff out.”

“So…”

“So you’ll either have to keep it like this or order a new bumper.”

“Oh.” That was an easy decision. “It doesn’t affect driving it, does it?”

“No, just cosmetic.”

You grinned at his use of the word cosmetic. “Easy enough. Leave it like it is.”

“Can do,” he said. And, just before you were about to hang up and go back to your show, “I’ll need you to come look at the damage and sign off on it.”

Christ. You really didn’t need to go see this man in person again. You would have to go back up there to get your car anyway, but you were hoping Arthur would already be busy with another car by then. “Can’t you just sign it for me? Take this as my personal attestation that I won’t sue you?”

“Afraid not,” he said simply.

“Ugh. Fine. When do I need to come up there?”

“It’s ready now. Anytime before five.”

“Great,” you said with as much sarcasm as you could muster. “Be there soon.”

“Bye,” he said, and hung up before you could.

“Bye,” you said in a sing-song voice, tossing your phone across the couch. This was just not what you needed right now. You were thrilled the car was done so soon, but you were determined to get this man out of your head. Going to see him at his shop, where he dressed like masculinity given form, would not help. But you sucked it up and called an uber anyway, at least glad that you wouldn’t have to inconvenience Janiyah by bumming a ride anymore.

The entire ride to the shop, you watched the traffic from the back seat and did your best to hold your tongue. But truly, you would have to move closer to the club or something. This road rage was taking years off your life.

Before you could do something stupid enough to ruin your uber rider rating, you arrived at Arthur’s shop. It was named Van der Linde Auto Shop—a mouthful of a name that you’d told them to change upon learning it. Because of it, though, you’d learned that Arthur didn’t own the place, that his last name was Morgan, and way too many other personal things about the guys who worked here. John and Javier included. The owner hadn’t been in the last time, and neither had the rest of their little gang of merry men. But today as you walked up in broad daylight, the place was crawling with them.

“Y/N,” someone called out from your right, and you squinted into the sunlight to find John. There laid another problem—because of the business with the cars and the cops, they now knew your real name.

John loped over, pausing his work on a ridiculously jacked-up truck you had a sneaking suspicion was his.

“Hey. Arthur’s just inside. Said to let him know when you got here.”

“Well, here I am,” you said, curious over John’s enthusiasm. You wondered if it was due to flattery or guilt. Most men couldn’t help feeling one or the other toward you after meeting you a second time.

“This way,” he said, sure as ever. You followed him in through the shop’s big bay doors, thinking he was likely feeling both. But you refrained from calling him on it, remembering the woman he and Arthur had been arguing about at the club. No need to insert yourself there.

“Arthur! Y/N’s here,” John called out to the floor.

You couldn’t see Arthur but heard him call out, “Give me a minute. Almost done here.”

You turned to John and smiled. “Thanks for the help.”

The scars across his face stretched as he smiled back. “No problem. See you.” Then he turned to go, and you could only laugh under your breath at his confidence.

“Yeah, see you.”

Wanting to get out of here as quick as you could, you went looking for Arthur. There were cars in the way and four other men you could see working—Javier and three others you’d never met—but no Arthur. Javier waved at you with a shit-eating grin on his face. You didn’t even want to know, just waved back. But you did spot your car near the back of the shop, so you made for it. Only, you saw sudden movement by your feet and stopped, taking in the sight of…holy fuck.

There were two work boots and a very familiar pair of well-fitting jeans sticking out from under the car at your side. Arthur was on his back on one of those stupid roller things, and the way he reached up to work on the underside of the car revealed a sliver of very chiseled, deliciously sweaty abdomen. You had two seconds to imagine your tongue on those muscles before you mentally kicked yourself and behaved.

You nudged one of his boots. “So, should I come down there, or..?”

There was a moment’s hesitation before he pushed himself out from under the car, rising up and putting those abs to work. You forced yourself not to watch them. Even though the rest of him looked just as good in a black shirt that stretched across his broad chest. He had black streaks across his arms and hands from whatever he had been doing with the car, and he started to wipe them away with a dirty rag.

“What part of ‘give me a minute’ didn’t you get?” he asked, though he sported a smug look as he said it.

You just shrugged. “You look done to me.” Not just done—hot as fuck, you thought to yourself. The way he cleaned his hands with that rag made his forearm muscles turn over, bulging. Something about the movement and the black shirt as opposed to the white one he had been in the last time...

Now that you took him all in, you realized he was undoubtedly threatening in a way that ran past the seams of his shirt and down his coarse arm muscles to his able hands. This man was barely-contained power. And yet, you still wanted it all for yourself.

“I am done,” he said. “But make no mistake, if I weren’t, you’d be waitin’.”

“You sure know how to charm a girl,” you replied lazily, easily. It was so easy to flirt with him you made a point to keep the chit chat to a minimum from then on.

He smirked and threw the rag on top of the car, rolling the contraption he’d been lying on back under the car with his boot. “Car’s over here,” he said, leading the way. You watched his ass in those jeans again, not really caring to divert your gaze. If this was the last time you saw him, it was best to take in the view.

He stopped just before your car and pointed at the front bumper. “Scratches are just there.”

You leaned down to get a better look and were pleasantly surprised. They really weren’t bad. You certainly wouldn’t be buying a whole new bumper just to fix a few pieces of fractured plastic. They were noticeable, but the thing was drivable and had two properly-shaped bumpers again. That was the best you could ask for at the price he was offering.

You straightened up and turned to him, and his gaze flicked back to your face. From where it had been on your ass.

This was a dangerous game the two of you were playing.

“Looks fine to me,” you said. “Where do I sign?”

He just grunted in response, motioning for you to follow him. You really wished he wasn’t so gruff. Rude, really. If he’d just accepted your dance back at the club, he would be gone from your thoughts entirely. But no. He had to make things difficult, like he knew you were a sucker for a challenge.

Arthur led you back to the shop’s corner office, one you noted was walled with glass. Likely so whoever was in here could see what was happening on the shop floor, though your mind went to less innocent things, like what all those workers would think of what a mess Arthur could make of you on this very desk. You shook that thought off before it could take root and looked to Arthur. He had found the form he wanted from the filing cabinet and laid it down on the desk, beginning to fill out the details of the repair. You watched his shoulders and back muscles work against the tiny weight of the pen on paper. This man really was a sight to admire.

“There, if you’ll just…sign there,” he said finally, flipping the paper around for you to sign. He held the pen out to you, and you impulsively tried to catch his gaze as you took it, but he wouldn’t look up. Coward.

You set your purse down in the chair at your side and signed. When you finished and handed him back the pen, he gathered up all the paperwork and the receipt. Then you paid and knew it was time to go or else risk getting hung up on this idiot.

“Here’s the keys,” he said, handing them over. “Try your best to drive a little better from now on.”

“Shut up,” you quipped. “Like you wouldn’t be happy to have me back in.”

He chuckled and shook his head, his face tingeing red. “Go before I charge you for keeping me from my job.”

You gave him one last long look, memorizing that handsome face, before turning on your heel. “Thank you, Arthur.”

All he said in response as he followed you back to the floor was, “Be sure to put it in reverse to back out of here. That’s the one with the ‘R’.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you shot back, though you gave him a smile and a laugh as you did, secretly hoping that just as it usually did at the Rouge, the look would linger.

It took you until you got out of your car back at your apartment to realize you didn’t have your purse. It, and your phone, and your wallet, were still sitting in that goddamn chair at Arthur’s shop.

You let out a groan and slapped a hand to your forehead, debating turning right around to go get it. You would need it for work tonight. But you also didn’t want to see Arthur again. You’d spent the entire ride home cursing yourself a fool for how you’d acted toward him at the shop. It was infuriating, really, how you just wanted to be done with him, but seeing him made you turn into the world’s biggest, most obnoxious flirt. You could not get involved with this man. It went against every instinct you had in your professional life. So, you did what any sane person would do when faced with such a problem and avoided it. You stomped upstairs and slammed your apartment door shut behind you, leaving that problem for a later, much wiser, version of yourself.

After eating a ridiculous amount of junk food and bingeing reality TV for the rest of the day, you finally gave in and left a little earlier than usual to go get your purse back before work. You only hoped that John or Javier or literally anyone other than Arthur would be the one to retrieve it for you when you got there.

Upon arriving, not only were you disappointed, you were debating turning right back around and leaving. It was late enough on a Wednesday night that everyone else had left for the day, and only Arthur’s gray truck remained sitting just in front of the office. Fuck.

All you could do was go in and get your shit and leave with as few words as possible, and that’s exactly what you aimed to do as you parked beside him and walked up to the door. But then you saw him through the glass office windows walking around the shop carrying some power tool, lifting his shirt up to wipe his sweat away. You watched that glorious body in silence, not moving a muscle to go inside as he used the tool to saw a piece off of a car. Fuck him and his stupid sculpted body.

Before you could move, he looked up and saw you standing there. He startled a little but set the tool down and walked over to you, opening the door. “Jesus, you trying to scare the shit out of me?”

“Sorry,” you managed. “I was just…I left my purse.”

“Oh. Where?”

You pointed inside the shop to the chair that held the tiny bundle of leather you could have burned up with the spite you felt toward it.

He held the door open wider for you and motioned for you to come in.

“Sorry about that,” you said honestly. “Didn’t mean to take up so much of your day.”

He huffed a laugh. “You sure about that?”

You stopped and turned toward him. “What do you mean?”

He crossed the room and took your purse, handing it to you in an annoyingly courteous way that made you think get out now before you do something stupid.

“Just that I’m starting to think you like my company,” he said, meeting your eye with a smile so charming that it made your flirting look pitiful in comparison.

You were lost on a comeback and settled for a simple, “I’m just forgetful is all.” Even though that couldn’t be farther from the truth—he had distracted you into forgetting your purse earlier.

“Uh huh,” he quipped. “And you just happened to be looking my way when I spotted you watching me work through that window, right?”

You felt your face heat. “Something like that.”

He really smiled now. “‘Course.”

He let the silence stretch enough for you to feel a panic you normally never did when it came to men.

“Well, thank you,” you said, turning for the door. “I owe you.”

“Nah, you don’t owe me anything. We’re even,” he said as he stepped forward and opened the door for you.

You passed him and walked into the night air, about to do the very thing you knew you shouldn’t. But you did, because he was a good person under all that toughness.

“Not even a dance?” you quipped, turning on him with a raised eyebrow.

His face hardened, his jaw clenching just a heartbeat long enough for you to know the comment had its desired effect. But then he leaned against the doorway and crossed his arms in amusement.

“You want to know why I turned you down before? Why I will every time you ask?”

Your heart started racing in a way no man had made it race in years. “Why?”

“Because I don’t pay for it. If I get what I want from you, it ain’t going to be for any money.”

You just stared at him. He stood straight and let the door fall in, retreating back into his shop. “Night,” he said without looking back. And you were left watching him go, for once the one allowing a man’s words to linger.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #high honor arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #fanfic #writing

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