#low honour arthur

[ak319]

Dark Arthur Morgan x sis reader

Part III

!!Warnings: Not incest, strictly platonic, abuse, restrictions // I don't condone such behaviour +Arthur is in his 20's

Part II

You wrapped the scarf tightly around your neck, partly to shield against the cold and partly to hide your identity. In a town like Strawberry, everyone knew everyone’s business, and Arthur’s threat still rang in your ears,

"Because I have eyes and ears everywhere."

At least you knew he wasn’t in town today. He’d made sure you knew that before leaving: “I’ll be back in the evening, probably 6. Don’t think about doing something funny.” He’d locked the door from the outside as he always did, instructing you to secure it from the inside once he left.

Jumping the fence wasn’t hard.

As you approached the station, your heart hammered in your chest. What do you even say when you enter there?

Would they even let you in? Would they laugh in your face?

How will your father be, and how will he react when he sees you?

You took a deep breath and entered the station after a hesitant knock, relieved to find only one man seated at a desk. No crowd. Just you and him.

“Um---Hi.”

The officer, with a weathered look on his face, glanced up at you, his expression clearly saying, 'state your business and leave.'

“Yes, missy?” he drawled. Your eyes flickered to the interior, taking in the few cells on this floor, all empty.

You swallowed hard. “Um--my fath--I want to meet a man--Lyle Morgan. Is he here?”

"There is no one by the name of Lyle Morgan here. We got a Landon though. In the basement."

"A-are you sure? He was arrested... six days ago..." The officer grunted in annoyance and pulled out a register, opening it on the desk in front of you.

"Look. No one by the name of Lyle Morgan, missy. Just Landon." He was right... Lyle wasn't on the list. Your anxiety spiked, and before you could respond, another officer entered, probably a senior, and halted in surprise upon seeing you.

"What's this young lady want, Finn?" The second officer assessed you from head to toe, clearly not accustomed to having many female visitors in the cells.

"Askin' for some Lyle Morgan, boss." Finn leaned back in his chair, shutting the register with a snap.

"Lyle... Morgan. Mhm." The taller man pondered as he sauntered behind you toward the poster board. "What's your name?" He snatched a paper from the board, but before answering your question, he asked you another one, making you more impatient by the second.

"(Y/N).."

"What's he to you, though?"

"An uncle of mine..."

"You are his daughter, ain't you?"

You gulped, clutching your coat at your stomach defensively. "Now, now, no need to be scared, darlin'. I’m actually surprised someone came to at least ask about him from here."

"Well, where is he??" you pressed, desperation creeping into your voice.

He sighed and handed you the paper, making you frown in shock and confusion. "He was involved in a robbery of a caravan along with his partner. What they didn't know was that the caravan was armed--not just a simple family. He was shot brutally and didn't make it. As for his partner, he fled..."

It was as if the whole world around you grew distant... like you were the only one existing, trapped with the words he said, reverberating in your head like clockwork.

“Didn't make it.”

“Didn't make it.”

“He didn't make it.”

"No... this can't be true--I--no!" You shook your head, the paper crumpling in your fist. "HE'S HERE! Somewhere! This can't be true! NO! NO!" You cannot be an orphan, right? You can't lose him too.

The officers, who clearly expected this outburst, were initially unwilling to entertain you further. But seeing a young woman cry seemed to soften their stance. The senior, whose name was Hayes, guided you to a quiet corner and handed you a glass of water, urging you to calm down. He had a daughter, and seeing you like this struck a chord with him.

"Look, um, (Y/n), right? These kinds of things... they can't be avoided when people like your father get involved in such... jobs. There’s always a high risk. I've had been trying to catch him again, red-handed, but with his age and how sloppy he’d gotten with all the drinking, he dug his own grave this time... I am sorry..." You stayed silent, clutching your head, a storm of emotions and thoughts swirling around.

"Who told you he was here, though? And honestly, it’s not safe to come to station alone, you know."

You groaned in frustration, that being the least of your worries at the moment. "Well excuse me, because I just found out my father has died , AND I WOULDN'T HAVE KNOWN IF I HADN'T COME HERE!"

You couldn’t believe it, Arthur lied to you... did he lie to you? Was he ever gonna tell you even?

"I’m sorry. Look, what happened was that we found his body further away from Strawberry, and I identified him instantly. I knew that Arthur was his son, so I took him to the other town’s station where his body was. He insisted on burying him there and being done with it, so we did."

You sniffled, your voice barely a whisper. "So I can’t even see his... body?"

"I’m afraid not."

That made your blood boil. "Wh----Is Arthur your friend or something?"

Hayes nearly snorted but held back. "Absolutely not, but he’s been in a cell for petty crimes before. Still, he's done plenty of bounty work too. Pretty good at it, I would even say but I’m still hoping to catch him one day too, right, Finn?"

The lazy officer’s chuckle echoed through the station, making you feel even more suffocated. "I-I need to go and... please don't tell anyone... I came here."

"Sure, missy. Sorry for your loss, again." Without another word, you stumbled out of the station. The warmth of the sun did nothing to soothe you on that windy day. Your gut twisted, your mind numb. You... felt alone. Your mum's gone. Your dad's gone, and... somehow your brother is gone too.

Somehow, you managed the strength to walk back home, but midway you heard a voice.

"Hey, (Y/N)...?" No, it can't be. You kept walking, but the person suddenly jumped in front of you.

"You are (Y/N). I was right. You grew few inches from the last time I saw you. Everything alright? Why were you at the station? Are you crying?"

"None of your business, Sean." This annoying member of that stupid gang. He's really testing your patience right now. His voice kept ringing behind you as he followed. "It is actually my business, as my duty is kind of to keep an eye on things around here as per Arthur's orders. And y'know Arthur won't be happy to know that his baby sis' was at the station."

You turned around, grief-stricken and furious.

"SO?! You’re gonna run to him, huh?! Be a little tattletale!?" You gave him a disgusted once-over. "Be my guest, as that seems like the only thing they keep you for."

He backed away, raising his hands, clearly offended. "Woah, woah. Easy there. I’m just doing what I’m asked to do-" But without hearing another word out of his mouth, you stormed off toward your house, leaving him dumbfounded. He was just doing what Arthur had asked him to do, and it was partly a coincidence that he saw you coming out of the station as he smoked on a bench. Judging by your state, it seemed like it was related to the Lyle incident that Hosea mentioned.

⋆⋆⋆

"I mean, I don't get why you're hesitating, boy." Arthur rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly as the two men rode side by side at a relaxed pace.

"Look, Arthur, I need you by my side. You’re a great addition, and you know it. Everyone knows it. Be practical. Strawberry doesn't offer much, but Blackwater has a lot to offer. I agree, Hosea agrees, and I want you to say yes too. Your reputation in Strawberry isn’t under the rug anymore, y'know. Being in the camp is safer, and like I said, you will make a great enforcer."

"I know, Dutch. It’s just..." How does he tell him that moving into the gang with you might not be ideal? God knows what kind of situations they get into, and the living environment there itself--constantly moving and the safety within the camp. He just cannot trust these people with you, no matter how loyal he is.

"I get it. You’re worried about the house, right? Well, Hosea is gonna stay back in Strawberry and take care of it, find a good buyer for it. You can trust him for that. And as for your sister, Arthur, come on, of course, I would welcome her with open arms! Just like I did with you. And Annabelle was telling me the other day that 'we need more women 'round here'. Well, she's right. I don't blame her, must be tired of seeing me." The raven-haired man let out a gruff chuckle.

"You think of me as your father, don’t you?"

"I--yes, Dutch." Arthur wasn't ashamed to admit that he had learned more from this man than his own father. Which kind of made him feel lucky and unlucky at the same time.

"Then why are you hesitating? We’re all a big family who takes care of each other. What I demand in return is only loyalty, boy. Nothin’ else. She will be like a daughter to me and Annabelle, rest assured."

Arthur nodded. "So, go home and think about it. Tomorrow, just go to Hosea, who is staying in Strawberry--you know where--and tell him your answer. He will take care of the rest."

With that, Dutch turned his mare and galloped in the direction of the new camp near Blackwater while Arthur trudged on toward Strawberry, his mind deep in thought. The silence was filled with the sound of hooves and crickets. Just then, he saw another rider approaching. Sean.

"Hey, Arthur."

"Hm. Hi. Dutch just went that way."

"Oh, before you go, partner, um..." Arthur sighed and turned his horse back a little. "What? Spit it out. I’m in a hurry."

"Well, I--your sister... I saw her coming out of the station. All puffy-eyed and... furious, even." Sean said, embarrassed as he recalled your insult, completely missing the look of fury on Arthur's face.

"Are you sure it was her?"

"Um, yeah. I even asked her, but she-" Without hearing another word, Arthur rode off, leaving Sean to wonder if he had done the right thing by telling him. But one thing was certain, both of you seemed determined not to listen to him.

⋆⋆⋆

As Arthur rode into the familiar surroundings of Strawberry, his heart raced, not just from the ride but from a simmering anger that had taken hold of him. The weight of Sean's words pressed heavily on his chest. He dismounted outside the small house he shared with you, the door creaking ominously as he pushed it open.

The moment he stepped inside, the air felt thick with tension. The scent of old wood and dust surrounded him. "Where the fuck are you, (Y/N)!?" he called out, his voice sharper than intended.

In the corner of the dimly lit room, you sat curled up on the worn couch, your face buried in your hands. The sight of you, vulnerable and hurting, ignited something fierce within him. He took a deep breath, but it did little to calm the storm brewing inside.

You looked up, startled. "...Arthur? You're home early..."

"Early?" he snapped, taking a step closer. "I just found out you were at the station! What the hell were you thinking? Didn't I tell you TO STAY PUT! HOW FUCKING DARE YOU GO THERE!"

You recoiled slightly, hurt flashing across your features. "I... had to find out about Dad. YOU LIED TO ME!"

Arthur's expression hardened. "I didn't lie. I was trying to protect you!"

"Protect me? By keeping me in the dark? You think I can't handle the truth?!" You shot back, rising to your feet, your eyes blazing with a mix of anger and hurt.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration boiling over. "What do you expect me to do? You’re too young to deal with this kind of thing!"

You took a step forward, shaking with fury and sorrow. “I had to hear it from some officer!” you continued, voice trembling with emotion.

"You don’t get to shut me out just because it’s easier for you.”

Arthur felt his heart twist. You were right, and the realization stung. But admitting that felt like admitting defeat. “I didn’t want to bring you into this...mess,” he muttered, voice low as if he was scolding himself.

Arthur clenched his jaw, his anger surging anew as he stepped closer, gripping your arm tightly. “It’s not like his presence ever did anything. All of this ends now. We are going. Go pack your things. Right now.”

“G-going where? And don’t you dare say anything about Dad--”

“DON’T ARGUE WITH ME! JUST DO WHAT I FUCKING TELL YOU TO! I AM GONNA BE WANTED HERE SOONER OR LATER! We have to fuckin go.”

You stumbled back toward your bedroom door, shaking your head. “I know... it’s.--you’re talking about... Dutch, right? ABSOLUTELY NOT! I grew up in this house! Mum decorated every inch of it... it’s laden with their memories! I won’t--” You choked on your sobs, the weight of loss threatening to crush you.

“Oh, so you want to live here in this town, alone? You think I will leave you here, just like that?!” he shot back, his voice low and threatening.

“I will! And I can!” Your voice trembled with defiance. “But I won’t live with a bunch... of.... criminals. Never.”

“You won’t, huh?” Arthur paced the room, his anger radiating off him like heat from a fire. You watched him, praying for a glimpse of the brother you loved to surface through the fury. But when he spoke again, all hope shattered. “Then I’ll have to make you.”

⋆⋆⋆

The sudden presence of a familiar horse made Dutch look up from his book, and he ambled his way toward the stable. “Arthur, my boy! Didn’t expect you to make up your mind this soon--” Dutch’s jovial tone softened as he caught sight of you, standing behind Arthur. The shadows of the night cloaked both of you, the flickering light of the campfire casting a glow around your forms. “So this is our (Y/N), huh? Well, young lady, I am Dutch. Dutch Van der Linde. About the time I meet the younger Morgan.”

Dutch chuckled, though his mirth felt awkward as he sensed the tension radiating from Arthur’s pissed-off demeanor and your attempt to shrink away from the spotlight.

“Greet him,” Arthur commanded, shooting you a sharp look over his shoulder when you hesitated.

“It’s alright, Arthur-”

“Do it.” He growled even making Dutch a bit shocked.

“H-hi,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Nice to meet you! No need to be afraid. We’re all a friendly bunch here. And you, by the way, are our youngest member, perhaps close to John. Speaking of, where is that rascal?....” Dutch’s attempt at levity fell flat as Arthur’s frustration seeped into the atmosphere, and he grabbed the bags from the saddle. Dutch still couldn’t see you properly, you kept your hair obscuring most of your face, casting shadows that hid your emotions.

“Dutch, is there a tent available? I need to put the... stuff in,” Arthur said, his voice tense.

“Oh, sure, sure. There’s one available. Come.” Dutch led you both to a tent and stopped, gesturing for you to enter.

“Um, make yourselves at home, and when you’re free, be sure to introduce her to Annabelle, Arthur. She’ll be happy.” Dutch’s cheerful tone faltered slightly as he glanced at you.

“Maybe tomorrow. She’s tired.”

That’s when Dutch caught a glimpse of the dark bruise on your left cheek, and understanding flickered across his face. “Um, sure. The food’s ready too, so don’t hesitate. Good night, then.” With that, he trudged off, leaving you alone with Arthur.

Once inside the tent, Arthur threw your belongings onto the bedroll with a force that sent a small cloud of dust into the air. “He’s the leader here. You gotta respect him. You hear me?”

You nodded, but the sting of Arthur’s words was sharp, mixing with the ache in your cheek. The tent felt too small, too close, and you could feel the anger emanating from Arthur like a storm threatening to break.

“Never question Dutch in front of the others. His word is law. If he gives an order, you follow it without hesitation."

Arthur’s gaze hardened slightly. “ Secondly, don't even think about wandering off. Get that imprinted in that head of yours. You won’t get far on your own anyway. This world out there… it’s brutal. You don’t know what’s waiting for you beyond these campfires. Trust me, it’s safer here, even with all the danger inside.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words settle over you.

“Next, keep your head down and do your part. We all pull our weight around here. You will cook, mend clothes, or help with the horses-whatever you can do to contribute. It’ll earn you respect and keep the others off your back, the women will guide you.”

“Lastly,” Arthur continued, his voice dropping even lower, “watch who you trust. There are good people here, but there are also those who’ll take advantage of your kindness. Don’t let anyone see you as a target. You have to be smart about it. I won't always be around here.”

You met his gaze, and asked shakily “I don’t want to be part of this , Arthur....please.” The only thing that was swirling in your mind was the fact that you had lost a sense of security, a home, no matter how empty it was, it was yours. Now, under the open sky, you felt lost. Empty. The whole situation just keeps getting worse and worse.

"Don't test me. I think I made it pretty clear back there. This is our family now, so accept it. And if I find you running...you know what happens, don't you?"

You curled your knees and backed away in the cot. "That's what I thought. Now, unpack or whatever. This is your tent for the night. I'll go bring the food."

He left you to dwell on your misery, once again. Is this... real? Is this your life now? The weight of your circumstances pressed down on your chest, making it hard to breathe and, your body aching due to the bruises. Would your mother be happy seeing you in this condition? The memories of her warmth, her laughter, suffocated by the harsh reality of your new life. Your hands shook as you pressed your palms against your eyes, trying to stifle the tears that threatened to spill.

⋆⋆⋆

2 weeks later

"Arthur accept it or not. Your sister sure knows how to make good coffee." Hosea patted the younger man's back as he sat on the crate beside him who only scoffed softly in response.

"Where were you though?"

"Just took John , for fishin'."

"You uh...both settling in alright then I assume?"

"I'd say, yes."

Hosea hummed, the sound almost comforting as he set the mug down. "Y’know, be soft on her. She has faced a major change in life with all the Lyle and... you know what I’m talking about. She rarely speaks to us, always doing chores, and you're the only family she has." The gentle reminder hung in the air, a stark contrast to Arthur's darker demeanor. You kind of reminded Hosea of his wife, Bessie, the way you carried yourself suggested a deep-rooted softness that clashed with the rough life you now found yourself in.

"Being soft is what has made her like this!" Arthur snapped, annoyance creeping into his tone. "And don’t tell me how to handle things."

Hosea rolled his eyes, unfazed by Arthur's irritation. "I’m just saying, you should consider how she feels. You’re not just a brother, you’re her only lifeline in this Godforsaken place."

Before Arthur could respond, he spotted you in the wagon, your focus on Annabelle as she chopped veggies, laughter spilling from her as you shared a light moment. The sight struck him with an unexpected pang of guilt but he brushed it off.

"Bring coffee for me, (Y/N)!" Arthur called out, his tone more commanding than he intended.

You instantly got up to fulfil the task, moving with a quiet determination that made your brother’s heart soften, if only for a moment. As you hurried to the campfire to refill the pot, Hosea turned to Arthur, a knowing look in his eyes.

"She’s trying, Arthur. You just need to give her a little more understanding, or she might just slip away from you," he advised gently, knowing that sometimes, Arthur’s tough love could push you further into your shell.

Arthur grunted almost mockingly, "The fuck you mean, slip away? She ain't a fish. She knows better than that." Hosea didn't miss the slight threat in Arthur's words which made him shake his head at Arthur's stubbornness.

As you returned with the steaming cup of coffee, the warmth radiating from the mug was a small comfort against the chill of the morning air. You looked between the two men, sensing the weight of the conversation.

"Here...." you said, handing him the cup, your eyes darting between them, seeking an understanding you felt was just out of reach.

“Hm. Maybe next time don't make me ask?” he muttered, taking the cup from your hands, Arthur watched you with a mixture of protective instinct and frustration due to his tiredness.

As the night deepened, the camp's laughter echoed in the background, but you felt like an outsider peering into this new world. The memories of home weighed heavily on your heart, even with Arthur’s watchful gaze, maybe you could carve out a new existence, and accept all of this just so it doesn't feel like a punishment.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙴𝚗𝚍

(AN: So, the main story has ended but if you want me to write a specific platonic scenario inspired by this story or even in general, be free to ask and I'll hopefully write it as I am a sucker for platonic fics >.<. Peace ‎♡‧₊)

[margowritesthings]

ROMEO AND JULIET PART II 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐜𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧.

read now | ao3

[unhingedlesbear]

Thinking about how he won’t run away from John if you follow him down the cliff.

[drizzledrawings]

There’s a good man within you Arthur, but he is wrestling with a giant

[arthursfuckinghat]

Arthur Morgan 𑁦𐂂𑁦 The Saints Hotel

[kaphzzz]

[historical-paramedics]

My thoughts on honour in rdr2 is not that it decides whether Arthur is a good man or a bad man because I feel like that doesn't really exist there's just people. Who do good things and do bad things and are a weird mix of the things they've done and experienced.

And I think for Arthur it's not that his low honour is a bad man it's that he's decided he's a bad man and doesn't give himself the chance to be anything other than that. I feel like the conversations with sister calderón is really important in presenting this, because she points out to him that people are more complicated than 'good', 'bad' like how she herself used to do bad things but she certainly isn't a bad person.

This is the same for Arthur he's not bad in low honour or even good in high honour the difference is that in high honour through things like talking to sister calderón at the train station Arthur allows himself the opportunity to do good things but in low honour he already believes he doesn't deserve it/isn't worth the effort and so doesn't give himself the chance to try.

Feel like it also comes down to a lot of how Arthur sees himself, we already know he has absolutely no self esteem from the way he talks to himself in the mirror/his journal. So maybe low honour is just Arthur with worse self esteem and not believing himself capable of being anything other than 'big scary outlaw'.

But also something about how no matter the honour he isn't just 'big scary outlaw' no matter how you play him or wtvr because no matter the honour Charles says "you're not as tough and dense as that" so whatever the honour charthur rules. That's right this was a charthur post the whole time (I'm rapidly going more insane someone switch me off)

Idk this might be really obvious or I could be way off the mark this is just some unhinged rambles from my rdr rotten brain 👍

[phantom-of-the-501st]

The biggest issue with playing as high honour Arthur Morgan is that I never get any of the red accents on the outfits

Missing out on red necktie Arthur because I saved too many fish and didn't kill enough people

[midnighvtm4ss]

not my dad asking me to play the ‘arthur guy’ game together just so he could play poker and ride around on my horsey

[listerbirdloml]

the last thing my arthur had written in his journal on my most recent play through was “sometimes it pays to be kind” and i want to SOB

[notsofriendlyfriendlyreminder]

Chapter 6

Arthur: Life's a bitch and then you die, right?

Sadie: Sometimes. Sometimes life's a bitch and you keep living.

[zonegum]

i cant stop playing the hyperfixation is coming back oh no

[margowritesthings]

ROMEO AND JULIET: II

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐜𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧.

series masterpost part I

pairing: low honour!Arthur Morgan x O'Driscoll!reader (f) word count: 5107 words warnings: 18+ minors dni, sexually explicit, low honour Arthur, rough sex, fingering (r receiving), oral (r receiving), blood play, knife play, gun play, touch of cnc, dirty talk, degradation, enemies while lovers, violence, murder, choking, low honour Arthur being sexy af (yes it needs its own warning) authors note: okay, it's been a whiiiile for these two crazies, but part 2 is finally here!! i gave this one my all, i hope y'all enjoy <3 i have a plan for this series that's mostly built on requests ive received, so if y'all have any suggestions please feel free to drop them in my asks!!<3 as always thank you to my darling Bea for being my cheerleader throughout getting back to writing. couldn't do it without ya <3beta read by @cowboydisaster

taglist: @cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @counteveryfreckle @elifsukirdaghehe @reaveries @delilah-grimes @mrsarthurmorgan7 @twola

Thanks to Arthur, and your own terrible decisions, it is far from the easiest ride back to camp, your bare, sticky skin uncomfortably grinding against your saddle with each movement your steed makes. Also thanks to Arthur, ironically, it isn’t the roughest ride you’ve ever had. You’d actually be hard pressed to find a harder ride than the one you experienced just minutes ago. It infuriates you, how unbelievably satisfied you feel despite everything. It’s bone deep and unlike anything you’ve felt with any of the other men you’ve been with. It even dopes your mind up enough to allow you to reach the bridge out of Saint Denis before the real regret sets in like a gypsies fuckin’ curse. 

You urge Tybalt, your snow white Arabian, faster, almost frantically squeezing your calves and verbally ordering his gallop. The saddle burn is searing, but it’s not nearly as bad as the ice water that feels as though it’s being dumped over your head when you realise what you’ve done. 

Arthur Morgan.

Arthur Fucking Morgan.

Fucking Arthur Fucking Morgan.

You don’t even really remember how it happened. It’s a complete blur of pleasure and pain and the smell of Arthur’s smoky breath and the feel of his calloused hands against your softest, most sensual parts. One minute, you’re gathering information, planning just how you’re going to loot the bastard, the next you’re bleeding for him, burning for him as he takes you under the orange glow of the streetlights.

The wind whips at your cheeks painfully, the skin of your thighs ripping against the hard leather of the saddle. The faster you ride, the more it hurts, but you’re grateful for it. It's the perfect punishment for what you’ve done, a painful distraction from the thoughts plaguing your mind of you fucking someone who considers your father’s killer a father to him. To add insult to all the injury, you have to go back to camp empty handed. You didn’t even think about the job Morgan is probably off finishing right now after finishing you, which is probably exactly what he wanted.

“God fucking dammit!” you scream out into the swamps of Lemoyne, scattering a few birds from the trees into the inky night sky. 

Tybalt carries you home, but in your current state you simply cannot face your family and the other gang members. It's 4am before all the lanterns are distinguished and you can finally hitch up and bring yourself to enter camp, tying Arthur’s jacket tighter around your waist and walking as quietly as you can back to your tent. You don’t sleep, despite longing for nothing but your cot the whole time you were waiting. 

Your jeans burn faster than expected. 

If only you could burn the rest of the night to ashes just as quickly.

═══════☆═══════

It’s been three weeks since you’ve seen Arthur Morgan. Actually seen Arthur Morgan, that is. Three weeks of good old Uncle Colm handing you the shittiest jobs as punishment for your failings. Three weeks of trying so damn hard not to bring yourself back to that night every time you’re alone in your tent, but finding it near impossible. It takes 9 days for the bruises on your thighs to fade and 14 for the cuts on your neck, though the constant reminder of your sins lies just on your inner thigh, where Arthur’s knife ripped your skin as you came undone in his arms. The scar shines in the candlelight, only seen in the dead of night when you’re alone, shamefully tracing the same lines Arthur did with your fingers over and over, chasing that rush you know deep down you won’t find without him. He haunts you, and yet you’re infuriated each and every time his cocky goddamn smirk somehow shows up in your deepest fantasies. 

It’s not your fault. You can’t even get yourself off without brushing against the mark he left on you. Hell, he may as well have branded his name into your leg. Bastard.

These are the grievances you grumble to yourself near nightly, the battle you fight with your subconscious even now, as the lock to the gunsmith’s clicks open in your nimble hands. The old door screams out the tale of years without oil for its hinges when you push it open, stepping inside into the dark, empty room. You’re far too focused on everything you shouldn’t be focused on right now to check over your shoulder before slipping inside, but in your years as an outlaw that mistake is yet to cause an issue.

The moonlight streams through the windows, the panes casting shadows of crosses on the shelves and the weapons adorning them. Your tired eyes scan your surroundings, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lip at the sight of those beautiful weapons, all yours for the taking.

The owner of the store almost certainly lives upstairs, so when the weight of your boots on the wooden floorboards makes them creak underneath you, you wince. Yes, you’re more than prepared for any disturbances, but you’d rather not have to deal with the hassle of shooting some guy in the face. A quick job, in and out, and you can get back to camp victorious and not think about Arthur Morgan.

You start with the ammo, loading the leather bag up with all the little boxes. The shells and bullets make such beautiful music to your ears as they clatter around their cardboard boxes, a song of abundance and a successful loot that you could listen to all night. When all the side pockets are full, you turn on your heel, spurs scraping against the wood as you begin to survey the shelves upon shelves of weapons. They appear to be organised well, the rifles in one corner, repeaters next to them, there’s an entire wall of pistols, some glinting in the moonlight that breaks through the dusty window, with all the other types delegated to an area of the shop each. It’s a beautiful sight for an outlaw, especially when you see the cabinet of knives and start to imagine all the different places you could shove them into Arthur’s ridiculously muscular body…

You’re getting off topic. 

The floorboards groan under your weight again the moment you start pacing the shop to grab at least two of each kind of gun. For each that goes in the bag for camp, you grab another, ever so slightly better one for yourself. You’ll carry them out separately and tie them up to Tybalt once you’re out of this place. That’s the plan, at least. 

It takes you the longest to pick out the knives, each one possessing a captivating reason to be your favourite. The carvings on all of the different handles are stunning, each blade almost glowing right to their pointed tips. Guns are great, but you’ve always been fond of the art form of blades. You reach for one, an ornate dagger that seems to shine brighter than the others, its handle carved into a beautiful, twisted scene. There’s a woman in the middle, flames wrapping around her legs and waist as the Grim Reaper holds her from behind. The detail is incredible, each bony finger of Death himself gripping into the woman’s hip. It almost takes your breath away, but something beats it to it. Someone beats it to it. 

“Aw, shucks, I caught another stray!” Arthur exclaims, all sarcasm and bravado as your gasp gets stuck in your throat. How the hell did he sneak up on you? You can’t even breathe without the wooden floorboards threatening loudly to collapse in on you. 

You set your jaw, grinding your molars and letting out a long sigh through your nose. You don’t turn around to face him, not wanting to look at him for fear everything will come racing back again.

“Fuck off, Morgan. This job’s mine. You’re too late.” 

He takes two long strides forward until he’s right behind you, which you only know thanks to the buzzing of energy tickling your back. How you can feel him without actually touching him, you may never know. But you do, and it clouds your mind something awful. 

“Now now, little stray. Don’t we share jobs? I seem to recall you tryna’ claim some of my takin’s a few weeks back.” 

Your grip on the ornate handle of the knife gets tight enough to turn your knuckles white, but you still refuse to face him, telling yourself it’s so you don’t have to look at his stupid face and absolutely no other reason. 

“And if you’ll recall, I took nothin’ from you.”

“Not for lack’a tryin’, princess. I think we both remember just what I had to do to you to stop ya’...” he taunts, low and gravelly. It vibrates against your back.

Even with your back to him, you can picture so clearly exactly what shit eating smirk he wears right now, as Arthur reaches up to the nape of your neck, running his knuckles so softly down each vertebrae of your spine, melting your very bones. For some reason, you allow yourself a moment- just a moment- to indulge in it, to let that tingling feeling spread like ripples in a pond crafted by his hand, before the immense effort you have to put in to not moan audibly slams you back into reality. You spin to face Arthur, braid whipping the air around you from the speed of it as your new weapon is pushed against Arthur’s throat, the tip threatening to slice open his jugular.

“Now you listen here, Morgan, and you listen good. That night never happened. You had a knife to my goddamn throat, you took whatever you damn well wanted from me and I’ll be damned if you take one more single fucking thing. Now get out of my fucking sight and let me do my job.”

Despite your white hot rage, despite the sharp metal nearly being forced through his windpipe, Arthur is still smirking, and by god if that doesn’t throw more fuel onto your burning fury. He scoffs a laugh out, swallowing hard enough for his Adam's apple to push back into the blade, making a point that he isn’t in the slightest bit scared of you. When he leans in, your arm follows, your resolve to slice his throat open dissipates into the thick air. Arthur reaches up, wrapping thick fingers around your wrist to pull it down away from him. For some reason, a reason you’ll spend an eternity searching for, you let him, you chest rising and falling as you attempt to merely exist without the growing tension cutting you apart limb by limb. His breath tickles your nose, and his lips are so close to yours you’re sure he’s going to kiss you, but he stops no more than half an inch away from you.

“You know I took nothin’ from you that you didn’t freely give me, little stray.”

The insinuation shatters that lie you keep telling yourself, the version of events where Arthur forced himself upon you and none of this is your fault. You know he’s right, but admitting that to yourself would break you, does break you. But you can’t break in front of him, can’t allow the slightest crack for him to prise open and reveal your true self. You hate him so much, that much is the truth, but there’s so much hiding behind that veracity that you can never allow to see the light of day nor the glow of the moon. 

You grit your teeth, jaw painfully twitching from the strain of working the muscle so hard since Arthur’s presence has begun to drown you. The fire in your eyes burns threateningly, but it’s taking more and more to keep it aflame the closer Arthur’s wandering hand gets to cupping your cheek. Without breaking the stare tethering you together, you reach up with cat-like reflexes to grip his wrist, stopping him just before contact is made.

“Get out, or I’ll scream and everyone will know you’re here.”

You’re at an impasse yet again, Arthur clutching your wrist with a near bruising force, you gripping his with his hand suspended in the air. It’s silent, save for the deafening buzzing of electricity cracking between you. Arthur chuckles, the sound coming from deep in his chest and reaching the depths of you.

“You think that’s a threat, woman? Scream in fear of me, scream for me while I take that pretty little cunt of yours again, it don’t matter. Ain’t nobody gonna come runnin’ to save you.”

He lets go first, because he knows your threats are empty. He knows you’re clenching down tight on your molars because it’s the only sensation distracting you from the heat pooling between your legs and he knows you want him just as much now as you did that night in the alleyway. Arthur Morgan always gets his way, it would seem. And you’re no different. 

You don’t expect him to release you, so the silence between you fragments and slices you when you drop your blade to the ground with a loud clatter. Anybody upstairs definitely would have heard that, and you’re infuriated that Arthur is ruining the first decent job you’ve been given in weeks, as much as your anger is overshadowed by… other sensations.

“We’re… we’re trespassing. They’ll call the law, ain’t you a wanted man, Morgan?” There’s no integrity to your words, no more fire, only an apprehension that you pray to god he can’t detect. 

He sneers, “And you’re here to what? Clean this bastard’s floors? C’mon, O’Driscoll…” At that, Arthur kneels down, picking up your discarded weapon. He drags the blade lightly up your inner thigh, making it all that much harder to suppress the little moan building from the sensation. He spins the dagger so that the blade is in his hand, offering it back to you. You look down at him while you take it, enjoying the sight of the notorious Arthur Morgan kneeling before you like this more than you could ever admit to yourself. “You know we’re just as wanted as each other.” 

His words strike a chord. A lonely chord, in a lonely song of two lonely souls who can never let anybody else in. In your line of work, closeness is danger, it’s risk and it’s not worth it. Nobody outside could ever understand… except him. You know the stories of the Van der Linde gang, of Arthur and his son and suddenly it all makes sense, why he’s chasing you like a hungry cat after a mouse. It’s the same reason you didn’t stop him the first time, the same reason you haven’t screamed like you’d threatened to, the same reason why you’re going to let him do this all over again. That closeness… you need it, even if it is with a man you can’t bring yourself to stand. You’re just as wanted as each other… just not by anybody who matters.

He watches in real-time as you realise all this, as you figure out that the man you hate most in the world is the only one you could possibly let in. It’s maddening, infuriating, and now you need a distraction. And you’re going to take it. 

You meet each other's eye, spotting the challenge hanging between you to see who will be the first to break. You feel the tension infiltrating your body, stealing the breath from your lungs and setting your skin aflame and you know the only way to stop it isn’t through extinguishing the flames but fuelling them. You need to burn with Arthur until there’s nothing left but ash and soot. 

You spark, while your oxygen gets ever closer. Arthur takes a few slow steps forward, and it’s only when his smoky breath infiltrates your senses do you realise that despite everything, you have never kissed him. He backs you up against the display case until there is nowhere for you to escape, your lips so close you can nearly taste the whiskey on him. Your heart hitches in your throat, convinced he’s about to break the barrier you didn’t cross before. 

Arthur doesn’t kiss you, instead growling deep in his chest as he sniffs, trailing his nose from your collarbone to your jaw. You shudder, your shirt suddenly feeling much too tight on your form.

“W-What are you-”

“Exactly what you want me to, little stray.” He whispers, “Or should I-”

“No. D-Don’t stop, I-” 

He doesn’t let you finish your request, knowing exactly what it is before the words can leave your lips and you’re grateful, it means you can hold full deniability after the storm just like you did last time. Arthur grasps your collar in each hand, tearing your shirt apart and scattering your buttons across the floorboards. Your nipples feel the cool night air only for a moment before one is taken in Arthur’s mouth, the other pinched between his calloused fingers. It’s too much and not enough all at once, and you feel the heat and moisture pool in your underwear at the very thought of what's to come. You need more. Now.

Your nails dig into Arthur’s shoulders, pushing him to his knees before you with a force enough to bruise him. It is an addicting view, Arthur kneeling for you, and it’s not one you’re about to pass up again. His hands are quickly on your belt, unbuckling it to access your buttons and zipper to slide your jeans and panties down your legs. Clothes discarded, he grips into your thighs and spreads them, diving into your heat like it’s a source of oxygen. There’s no teasing, no featherlight touches nor gentle licks… no, he takes your clit in between his teeth, the sharpness shooting everywhere as he begins to suck. It catapults you. To where, you have no idea, but it’s incredible, otherworldly, and enough to make you instantly forget where you are. You mewl, tugging at Arthur’s locks as he begins to lap your juices up like a man starved. Say what you will about Arthur Morgan- and you do, often- but by god does he know exactly how to make you feel good. 

You’ve never had a man take you like this, with you standing above him while he bows to you, and it takes near everything you have to not let your legs buckle beneath you. Somehow, you know Arthur would catch you, but you’d rather not find that out right now. 

“Fuck…” you breathe out amongst moans and whimpers, hips bucking against Arthur’s face. His stubble burns against your thigh beautifully, each and every sensation of the moment working harmoniously to send you to dizzying levels of pleasure. You ride Arthur’s face, bare feet pointed on your tiptoes to allow him better access as you climb closer to nirvana. Your nails scratch hard against his scalp, wordlessly letting him know just how close you are, silently demanding he doesn’t dare stop. Arthur sucks hard on your sensitive little bundle of nerves, his teeth catching it every so often in the sweetest pain you’ve felt in… well, about 3 weeks. It hurtles you over the precipice you’ve been dangled over, and you have to bite down on your lip so hard you draw blood. A coppery taste blooms over your tongue, your only sign that you’re still human despite the unearthly, ethereal sensations burning every inch of your body inside and out. 

When you reach what you assume to be the peak, the very edge of what you’re sure a human body can handle, the strength of your bite becomes no match for the need to moan out. It echoes around the room, a positively obscene sound that you can’t even really hear over the rushing of your own blood in your ears. 

“Quiet, goddammit.” Arthur grumbles, all but slapping his palm against your open, quivering mouth. Just as you think you’re about to come down from this immeasurable high, you feel two of Arthur’s thick fingers run over the part of your soaked slit that isn’t consumed in between his teeth. It’s the only warning you get before he plunges them deep inside you, curling to find that swollen spot he seems to have a map to. No barrier on this Earth or otherwise could stop the scream derived from pure ecstasy escaping your lips. The combination of the delicious suction Arthur has on your clit and the curved pumping of his fingers is a completely new level of euphoria. You feel so full before Arthur’s cock has even broken free from its denim confides and you’re not sure how much more of this relentless orgasm you can take without collapsing into him. 

You reach a crest higher than you thought possible, crashing back down into this realm as if your body is nothing but seafoam. Your chest swells with each laboured breath you’re finally allowed to take once Arthur removes his hand from your mouth, though you still can’t really see straight. Your mind is fuzzy, still trying to wrap itself around the concept that anyone could make you feel that good, so Arthur already has his zipper undone and is reaching to pull his cock out before you’ve even registered that he has stood.

After three weeks of Arthur only existing in your mind, you’d convinced yourself that your memory couldn’t possibly be accurate, that over a few lustful nights alone in the dark you’ve managed to exaggerate… but no. Arthur is, as much as you loathe to admit it, magnificent. Just as thick as you remember, with veins that wrap around his shaft like ivy throbbing with pure need. He’s almost too big, your overstimulated cunt seems to think, widening your eyes in awe to watch when Arthur begins to palm his leaking cock.

“I-I don’t think I can-“

“Oh yeah you fuckin’ can,” He grits, giving you no time to catch up with your own racing heart as he grips your thighs, lifting you up to perch on the glass counter of weapons and spreading you wide. Arthur surges up, spearing into you. He wastes no time, he needs not warm you up; after such a blinding orgasm, you’re already soaking for him. He feels your arousal, mixed with his own residual spit, coating his cock as he slides in up to the hilt. He groans viscerally, leaning right into the crook of your neck so his breath burns your skin. He takes your flesh between his teeth in a sharp, pinching bite and you yelp between mewls. Tears form in the corners of your eyes from the pure stretch and invasion of Arthur filling you so wholly, but you’re too far gone into this cloud of sensation to care if they fall. 

“See how much you need me, little stray… how much you fuckin’ need this cock, huh? Actin’ like you hate the big bad wolf, but I feel how your cunt weeps for me, how it wraps around me while I fuck you senseless.”

Your inner thigh is left with a burning red handprint when Arthur releases it to reach and rub hard circles on your clit. It makes it so hard to meet his eye without your own rolling to the back of your head in bliss, makes it near impossible to argue back when you can already feel another orgasm approaching, but your stubbornness persists enough to let you try and struggle out an argument.

“I can enjoy your cock and still hate you, wolfie.” 

Your less than affectionate nickname earns you a harsh slap against your clit, the pain bouncing through your every inch in the sweetest pain you could imagine. You cry out again, sucking in a breath through gritted teeth as Arthur continues to relentlessly pound into you. You’re sure you won’t be able to walk tomorrow, or ride for at least a week, but it’s a small price to pay for something so fucking good.

Neither of you are holding back, moaning into eachothers mouths, inhaling eachothers breaths, growling for each other and just barely avoiding your lips touching. You don’t hear the ceiling creak, nor the stairs groan under the weight of the gunsmith on his way to see who or what is making such grotesque noises in his humble little shop. All there is in this moment is you, Arthur, and his glorious cock fucking you insensible. Your ass burns from the friction of rubbing up against the glass display case, even more so when Arthur releases your other thigh to reach for something at his hip and the case is left to hold your entire weight. You see nothing but your big bad wolf, grunting and growling deep as you climb ever higher with him.

“What in the-”

BANG 

A gasp is ripped from your throat with the gunshot ringing in your ears. Your heart couldn’t pound any harder without breaking free of your ribcage, but a swift look to your left shows that you’re in no danger at all. Arthur’s arm is outstretched, smoking pistol pointed to the air above the now dead gunsmith. He doesn’t even look away from your face, contorted in such bliss as he continues to dangle you over the edge. He killed a man while buried so deep inside you, his victim’s blood now splattered across both your faces like crimson freckles. 

There’s no time to mourn, or even acknowledge, as grasps your jaw hard between his thumb and forefinger and forces your eyes back to him. The blood sprayed on his features suits him, you think, but that makes sense for the big bad wolf. The way he takes a life with such ease… it terrifies and enthrals you all the same. Your pussy squeezes around his shaft involuntarily at the thought of watching him kill again and again just to fuck you just that bit longer, at the idea that those measly mortal lives pale in comparison for his need to be inside you. 

“Oh, fuck, Arthur I’m gonna-” 

You’re cut off by a sharp slap to your cheek, and it burns so beautifully. The blood on Arthur’s hands smears across your skin, tainting you, body and soul. His hand quickly returns to its bruising grip on your cheeks, and you feel the heat of the pistol in his other hand pressing into your stomach. His finger isn’t near the trigger, and somehow you don’t think he would hurt you with it, but you suddenly realise the danger you could be in right now. You and Arthur hold a long-standing feud, your respective gangs have been fighting for even longer than that. The outlaw just executed a man ruthlessly for simply being in the wrong place, his own property, at the wrong time, and now he holds your life in his hands, literally. There is nothing stopping him from widening those jaws and consuming his little stray right here and now…

And what a way to go it would be.

You can’t bring yourself to care, can’t let the fear serve any other purpose than to pump the adrenaline around your veins and carry you back to the climax you’re searching for.

“Gonna cum, little stray? Come apart for me all over again? Hate me all you want, you n’ I know what you do for me when we’re all alone. Cum, little stray. Now.”

And you do. You come apart not with a fizzle but a bang. A blinding, screaming bang, where your limbs tighten around Arthur and your skin fizzles at any contact. He never stops his thrusts, each one seeming to renew the sensations spreading around your whole body like waves lapping and crashing against you. The gun presses into your flesh, serving as a reminder of the danger Arthur is capable of inflicting, yet it only heightens everything. You moan into his ear, your tongue running across his lobe not by design but because you have completely lost control of yourself. In this moment, you’re Arthur’s. And you feel too fucking good to even worry about it. 

The fear that he could snap your neck with so little effort, or pull the trigger of his gun and blast you to bits, lingers, spurring on your frantic movements while you grind needily against his own thrusts. Part of you wishes he would, so the both of you could find some twisted hellish realm where this union makes sense and you can rule it, together. The big bad wolf and his little stray. It’s an alarming thought to have, but who could blame you? If the devil himself could make you feel this good you’d bow to him too, weapons or none.

Arthur’s movements become sloppier, less controlled, and his grip on your cheeks tightens. He’s close, while you’re still riding your high. There’s a sharp aching where the gun presses hard into your ribcage, giving your future self the perfect excuse as to why you didn’t make Arthur pull out. He curses loudly, though it comes out more a growl, before biting hard into your neck. He surely draws blood with the force of his teeth against your skin, but it’s difficult to find it in you to care. He’s pounding you so hard into the glass you’re worried it’ll smash beneath you, but being shredded by broken glass seems an easy punishment for the sins you’ve committed again with this man.

You both come down together, glistening with blood and sweat and tears. Arthur remains in the crook of your neck, exhaling hot breaths over your skin. There’s a few seconds of a silence only broken with exasperated gasps, and then a wince when Arthur slides out of your drenched cunt. Now you can actually think straight, your hand shoots to your swollen lips at the sight of the deceased gunsmith beside you. Arthur is covered in blood, and you’re no better, but by God does it suit him. 

Having not gotten fully undressed, save for resting his jeans below his hips, Arthur takes no time at all to right himself, holstering his gun and pulling his jacket over the bloodstained shirt. He looks over to you, the harsh shadows cast by the moon only exaggerating his smirk. It takes everything you have not to flinch when he reaches for you, though the panic quells when he runs his thumb gently over your jaw, leaving a scarlet trail in his wake.

“See you on the next job, little stray.”

[pinkysberg]

i get weirdly defensive over low honour arthur. not because i think he's defensible in any manner, but because i think the low honour aspects of this game are really interesting and thought provoking. as much as i appreciate the catharsis of giving arthur a more satisfactory ending, there is some really underrated characterization and writing that i feel goes unnoticed and under-appreciated sometimes.

[drizzledrawings]

Every time I see the take that “low honour arthur is canon arthur” i loose 5 years off of my life span

Like do you not get the game

[arthursfuckinghat]

"But I'm not a good man.. not usually. You see, I was in Blackwater. I kill people. And maybe I shoulda killed you. Should I have killed you, Jimmy Brooks?"