#merry go round pony | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

author-morgan · 2 years

Text

Title: A Silver Promise Pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader Rating: T Summary: Arthur knows he's been a fool. A fool to drag you into this mess. A fool to have not told you sooner. A very merry belated cowboy Christmas and early Valentine's to @overratedsun 🎁🎄❤️

GUNSHOTS RING OUT in the night —another mistake that’ll cost them the job and end with more lawmen chasing after the Van der Linde gang. Arthur glances around, eyeing the horses hitched behind the line of storefronts. It’s a straight shot, long as a few bullets miss the mark. “Go!” He shouts, motioning to Bill and Micah. “Get the hell outta here!” Crouching back down behind the line of barrels, he looks to his left and right, at you and John, and nods. Wood from a post on the saloon’s post splinters, and for a moment, there’s a lull. The three of you dash for the horses, blindly firing into the alley behind you for cover.

You slide into the saddle of your speckled mare and snap her reins, setting off between Arthur and John as you flee the town. More shots come, this time whizzing past your heads. Pulling toward the side, you draw one of the six shooters from the holster at your waist and fire back into the cloud of dust as you ride into the woods, needing to lose any pursuers before you all can risk heading back to camp. The bullets keep coming with the pounding of thundering hooves —four riders hot on your trails.

Seven more shots pop off in quick succession, and the acrid smell of cordite fills the air. Two riders fall from their saddles, unmoving, their riderless horses bolting ahead. Arthur and John are quicker than you, reloading their revolvers, but you fire back at the remaining two lawmen too, barely aiming. The last two fall —slumped over in the saddle and thrown from the horse. You’re in the clear for now.

With a relieved sigh, you squeeze the mare’s sides to catch up with Arthur at the lead. The renewed quiet and rhythmic drumming of hooves brings the throbbing in your right shoulder to the forefront of your mind —the pain is white hot and saps the air from your lungs. No, you think, head drooping, finding something wet and dark sliding down the front of your vest —blood. You’d taken a bullet and hadn’t even noticed ‘til now. Fingers trembling, you holster your revolver and pull the neckerchief from ‘round your neck, pressing it against your shoulder. Be fine until we get to camp, you tell yourself, but then you feel warmth trickling down your back too, and know it’s a lie.

Breathing growing more unsteady, you feel your grip on the reins slipping until it becomes too much to hold on and sit upright. John pulls back on the reins of his horse as he watches you fall from the saddle, hitting the ground —hard. “Arthur!” He shouts, sliding out of the saddle and next to you, seeing the blood and new pallor washing over your face. John peels away the neckerchief, surveying the damage. “Shit.” It doesn’t look good.

Arthur Morgan’s heart stops when he looks back —it’s a nightmare he’s had too often, but there’s no waking up from it this time. He slides from the saddle and kneels, pressing the neckerchief back over the wound, knowing they need to act fast. Stomach churning, he glances around, teeth grinding together. “Rope her horse,” he tells John, voice fading into a strained rasp, “get back to camp and tell ‘em get everything ready.” John nods, quickly ponying the speckled mare to Old Boy and climbing back into the saddle —racing ahead in a cloud of dust.

You groan and whimper when Arthur lifts you into his arms, unfocused gaze settling on him and the night sky above —all of it a passing blur. He sets you at the front of his saddle and pulls himself up, one hand taking the reins, the other holding the neckerchief in place to slow the bleeding. “Stay with me,” he breathes at your ear, squeezing the sides of his painted mare. “We’re gonna get you patched up.” This isn’t like what happened to Jenny on the road north or Davey in Colter. There were more supplies and better weather —more hope.

Arthur glances down when your hand covers his —fingers slick with blood but feebly pressing against his. “Promise?” You wince at the jolt of pain when Arthur’s mare takes a hard step back down onto the road.

“Promise, darlin’,” Arthur answers, his throat tight. He isn’t one to make a promise he can’t keep, especially to you. His gaze flits from the road, trusting his mare to stay on the path. Your head rests against his shoulder, eyes drooping shut. “Jus’ keep your eyes open,” he tells you, voice cracking —he’s almost begging, “keep talkin’ to me.” We’re almost there.

“Remember the day we met?” You ask, looking up at him in the edge of your vision —his lips twist upward. Meeting you is a day he isn’t like to forget any time soon. At the time, few people had gotten the better of him and Hosea, but you’d lifted just over ten dollars from them and made Dutch Van der Linde your next target. Being young and foolish certainly helped your resolve, even after he caught you red-handed before hearing his two accomplices shouting down the street about a doe-eyed little thief.

You can feel the rumble of laughter in his chest at the memory. Twenty years hadn’t made you a better pickpocket, but you had gotten better with a rifle and revolver. “Dutch was ready to wring your neck,” he reminds you.

“But you stopped him.” Your lips twitch into a lazy smile. Dutch won’t looking to start a notorious outlaw gang back then, and he sure won’t looking to add a daughter to the small crew he did have, but Arthur stuck out his neck for you when he was eighteen and foolish. Hosea always said he was thinking more with what was below his belt than his head then. In the end, everything worked out —Dutch found another loyal member for a growing band of misfits. You fit in well enough with the likes of Arthur Morgan and John Marston, too, becoming the steadfast daughter Dutch never imagined he’d have.

“How” —your voice fades as you take a shallow, labored breath— “how ‘bout first time we kissed?” Just the thought brings a pained smile —to be that young and foolish again.

Dutch had you and Arthur sneak into a party as eccentric newlyweds. All dolled up and flaunting profits of a company that didn’t even exist to gain investors —one of the few times Dutch’s plans more or less worked out. It’d been over a glass of brandy that Arthur came to fetch you from a discussion with a group of ladies. You remember how your heart seemed to stop when he leaned down, caressing your cheek before settling his lips on yours —a moment you could have happily lived in. “Was just for show then,” he muses, “least that’s what I thought.”

And maybe that first kiss was just for show, but it awakened something in both of you, and in the following months and years, everything fell into place. Dear friends turning to lovers, it was only natural —you loved Arthur Morgan with your whole heart. “Art-” your voice fades into an airy whisper, eyes slipping shut. Hot tears slip from his eyes, burning his cheeks when he presses his face into your neck —pushing his mare harder. Of all the people in the world, he can’t lose you.

Everyone is standing around —waiting as Arthur rides into camp after what John told them. Grimshaw is the first to ask when he lifts you from the saddle and back into his arms, carrying you to his cot. “Not doin’ good,” Arthur admits, knowing it’s better to face the hard truth than hide behind hopeful lies, “lost a lot of blood.” The front of his shirt and vest is streaked red, his hands slick from where blood seeped through the neckerchief.

Strauss and Swanson wade to the tent, peeling back the neckerchief, holding a lantern close. A clean shot through and through —no bone and no slug. The slow trickle of blood is promising too. They share a look. It’d been a wise call, setting the knives in the fire already after Marston arrived. Arthur starts undoing the buttons on your vest and ruined shirt beneath, exposing the puckered and broken skin. Tilly brings a washbasin, setting it on the bedside table. Her shaking hands wring out a rag, but Arthur stops her before she can start cleaning the wound, taking the damp cloth with a nod —his hands are steady even if it feels like his world is crumbling.

“No other way?” Arthur asks, eyeing the throwing knife glowing a dull shade of red. Strauss shakes his head. Stitching would take too long and pose a higher risk of infection —burning the wound is the only way. Arms pinned at your sides by Arthur and John, Strauss presses the flat of the hot steel against the blood-slick skin. The pungent smell of burning flesh jumps into the air, carrying on the wind. A scream is torn from your lungs, eyes wide and darting around in panic. In the haze, you find Arthur looking down on you, and —with the comfort found in his gaze— you slip back into darkness, far, far away from the pain.

He sits bedside, holding your hand, not ready to part and face the others after what happened in town. His stomach is in knots, heart aching, mind racing with how things could have played out differently and pinpoint what went wrong. But he already knows what went wrong —the same goddamn fool who’d caused nothing but problems since Dutch brought him back to camp six odd months ago. And then Micah Bell speaks, and all Arthur’s anger comes rushing to the surface, unrestrained. What went wrong feels like a blur, but Arthur knows. Arthur knows who caused the plan to fail. “This wouldn’t’ve happened if you’d stayed in your goddamn hole and waited for the signal like everyone else!” He shouts, rising from his bedside seat and turning toward the center of camp.

“I saw an openin’,” Micah bites back in defense. “Any one of you would’ve done the same.”

“Oh, you saw an openin’,” Arthur mocks, tone and gaze venomous, “look where that’s got us.” His hand hovers over his revolver. He’s never wanted to shoot somebody more than he does right now. Six months versus nearly twenty years. Ain’t been nothing but trouble and bad luck since Dutch brought him back to camp.

“Stop,” Dutch shouts, stepping from his tent. “Arguin’ ain’t gone help.” Arguing might not but putting a bullet between the bastard’s eyes just might. John grips Arthur’s shoulder, hoping it’ll temper his anger. Dutch looks between Micah and Arthur, glimpsing past them both to where you lie, unmoving save for the slow rise and fall of your chest. “What’s done is done, but we are gonna get some medicine and supplies,” Dutch’s voice cracks as he points back toward Valentine. Didn’t matter whose fault it all was, they’d all do what they could to help one of their own.

SUSAN PRESSES A bowl of Pearson’s venison stew into Arthur’s hands. He’s not bothered with breakfast or even a cup of coffee. “Can’t starve yourself” —she lays her hand on his forearm, seeing how he glimpses down at the gruel with disinterest before lifting his gaze back to where you rest. He always knew this was a possibility —the harsh reality— with the life you lead, but you’d both come out of worse situations than a failed robbery in a livestock town unscathed. “I know you’re worried, but you gotta eat, too,” Grimshaw tells him. Won’t a single soul in camp not worried about you, save for maybe Micah.

“I know,” Arthur answers, looking down. He doesn’t have much else to say —and if he thinks too much about what happened, his stomach starts to twist, and he can feel a lump rising in his throat.

Not long after, John Marston wanders over from the scout fire with Jack on heel. “Jack has something,” John says, nudging the boy forward. Clasped in Jack’s hand is an empty whiskey bottle made into a vase with a small bouquet of white and yellow wildflowers. Some flowers might help, Jack, his mama told him after he cried himself to sleep thinking he was gonna lose someone else already. Abigail tried explaining what happened to the boy without scaring him. John did too, but he’d seen the blood, and he’d seen Arthur crying too. Jack sets the bottle on the bedside table, looking between you, Arthur, and John with his eyes puffy and red.

“That’s mighty sweet of you, Jack,” Arthur says, and the boy lowers his head, sniffling, then retreats to his mother.

John isn’t so quick to leave, though. He pulls up another crate and sits, his hands clasped together and head hanging low. “She’s like a sister to me,” John rasps. He feels sick to his stomach, unable to imagine what Arthur must be feeling as he sits —waiting. By the time Hosea and Dutch took him off the streets, you’d already been riding with them and Arthur for five years. It all feels like a lifetime ago now. He swallows the lump in his throat, thinking about when the wolves almost killed him a few weeks back. You scarcely left John’s side after what happened in Colter —even when Abigail was ready to kick him back out for the wolves to finish off. “I would’ve taken that bullet for her, Arthur, you know that.”

Arthur nods, glancing down at his hands —it’s like he can still see and feel your blood seeping betwixt his fingers. “I do,” he says, “cause I’d do the same.”

Uneasy silence lingers between the estranged brothers, but then John remembers one of the trips he and Arthur made into Blackwater what seems like a lifetime ago, given everything that’s happened since. “Never got the time to ask, did you?” He queries. Arthur shakes his head, reaching into his pocket for a plain silver ring he’d bought from a jewelry store in Blackwater before everything went to shit.

IT TAKES THREE long days, but before the fourth can start, the fever finally breaks, and you stir —rousing with a groan at the stiffness in your joints and the throbbing in your shoulder. You reach up, fingers finding a thick layer of cotton and linen wrapped around your chest and arm. So, wasn’t a dream. Sitting up, you hold onto your injured shoulder —breath hitching at the sudden rush of air and blood. Camp is dark, save for the glowing coals of the night’s fires and the lanterns hanging from the wagons and in tents. He’s leaning against a stack of crates, arms crossed, and hat pulled down over his face —the first time he’s slept for more than a few minutes since it all happened. “Arthur,” you croak, reaching out for him. He’s just out of reach, but you catch the sleeve of his worn blue cotton shirt.

Arthur stirs and moves back to his makeshift chair at your bedside. He lifts his hand, the back of his fingers brushing across your cheek and forehead —checking for fever. There ain’t none, just the feel of the cool damp night air clinging to your skin. “How you feel?” Arthur asks.

“Like I got shot,” you breathe, smiling —an attempt to make light of the situation. If the tired, serious expression Arthur still wears is anything to go by, you’ve failed. Needing to stretch achy joints, you swing your legs over the edge of the cot and lean forward, swaying. Arthur’s hands settle on your hips, and his blue-green gaze is only focused on you, but you can make out the darkening circles around his eyes and the unusual redness in them too. “Sorry I scared you like that.” It’s a strained whisper.

He shakes his head. “Hush” —Arthur reaches for your hands and holds them gently, giving a reassuring squeeze to remind you this wasn’t your fault— “ain’t nothin’ to be apologizin’ for.” A knot rises in your throat at hearing his voice, filled with emotion, break.

You glance over his shoulder and past the overlook, seeing the moon below its zenith in the night sky. “Still a few hours ‘til dawn,” you note. It wouldn’t be difficult to fall asleep again. You can already feel the growing dizziness and fatigue from sitting upright. Arthur looks back at the sky, catching the trail of a falling star. “Room for two,” you muse, and it’s an offer he can’t refuse. Toeing off his boots, he slips behind you on the cot. Arthur’s arms are warm and strong and feel like home when they settle around your waist. Sighing, you lean back into him and turn your head to listen to the rhythmic beat of his heart —the sweetest of lullabies, and when his lips brush against your forehead, it makes the moment all the sweeter.

IT’S AFTER SUPPER when Arthur rides back into camp from his dealings in Emerald Ranch at Strauss’s behest. You’re up and walking ‘round camp again but still can’t do much save for watching the others carry on with their chores and strike up a conversation —doing too much will turn you pale and make it hard to stand upright. A week’s gone by since you first woke, and it’s given Arthur time to think about the silver weight he’s been carrying in his pocket for three months now. He finds you sitting next to Jack, playing with the boy and his wooden horse and soldiers. “You still feelin’ alright?” Arthur asks. He knows it’s getting late, wouldn’t be long before the sunset over the horizon. You nod, and he offers his hand, helping you off the ground. “Let’s take a ride,” he says, tugging you toward the hitching posts.

You both stop south of Flatneck Station, overlooking the lake and Bard’s Crossing as the setting sun tinges the encroaching indigo sky with soft hues of orange and pink. He dismounts his Appaloosa and goes to help you from your saddle, hands lingering on your sides to steady your footing. Overlooking the vista, you breathe in the cool night air —can smell the rain coming on the wind. It’s nice to get away from camp. Won’t in your nature to stay cooped up like that, not after riding with the boys for so long.

Arthur steps up to your side, and you grip his arm, pulling yourself close as you lean your head on his bicep. He’s oddly quiet for it just to be the two of you, and there’s a strangely pensive look about him. You want to ask what he’s thinking about, what’s bothering him, but he shifts and leans toward you, pressing a quick kiss to your temple —the scruff of his beard a rough tickle— before taking a step backward, fumbling for something in the pocket of his jeans. You catch the glint of silver in his hand, and then he sinks to one knee.

Stepping back from him, you shake your head, feeling tears prick your eyes. “Arthur Morgan, you get up!” You tell him, heart racing and stomach twisting. His expression shifts to melancholy and something almost akin to regret. “You’re only doin’ this because you thought I was gonna die.”

He rises and reaches for you, rough hands cupping your cheeks, thumbs brushing away the tears. His eyes shine in the dying light —tears unshed. “I’m not,” Arthur promises. He’s known for a long time he’s wanted to do this, but there never seemed to be a good time or place to ask. “I’ve had this since we first got to Blackwater,” he tells you. “Wanted to ask ‘fore everything went to shit.” You know he’s telling the truth —won’t a reason for him to try to lie about something like this. His hands slip away from your face, and he goes to one knee again, holding out the silver ring. “Ain’t no one else out there for me but you.” He smiles. “It’s always been you,” Arthur says, “always will be.” No one else would have him, but he doesn’t want anyone else, either.

You go to your knees, wrapping your arms around him, face pressed into the crook of his neck. Arthur lets out a shaky breath and holds you tight, almost unwilling to let you go when you shift, pushing back so you can look at him. “Arthur” —you brush your fingers through his close-cropped beard; there’s nothing but love and adoration in his eyes when he smiles at the sound of his name in your sweet voice— “yes.” He catches your left wrist and slides the silver band onto your ring finger. A new and comfortable weight. Smiling, Arthur settles his lips on yours —a good and proper kiss, the way you deserved to be kissed every time. Your fingers slide back into his hair, holding him in place when he parts. “It’s always been you, too,” you echo, and Arthur Morgan knows he’s probably the happiest and the luckiest fool alive.

[Arthur Morgan taglist: @erzsebetrosztoczy / @gallimaufrea / @hc-geralt-23 / @Idkjj04 / @ksziggy / @little-honeypie / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @overratedsun / @qhbr2013 / @xiakahazou ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Arthur taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

#Arthur Morgan #Arthur Morgan x Reader #Arthur Morgan Fanfiction #Arthur Morgan Imagine #Red Dead Redemption 2 #RDR2 #Red Dead Redemption 2 Fanfiction #my writing

228 notes · View notes