#red dead redemption chapter 4 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

animasolaoriginal · 9 months ago

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I n n o c e n c e L o s t 🟪 4

Nebbia learns more about Ben, and also about the people around her, which doesn't bode well for the innocent girl...

lonely cowboy/outlaw ✖️ prostitute who's so much more than that

Chapter 1▫️2▫️3▫️4▫️5▫️6▫️7▫️8▫️9▫️10▫️11▫️12▫️13 ...

GENERAL TAGS: NSFW! Explicit! Size difference, age gap, slow burn romance. Cowboys, outlaws, prostitutes. Historical inaccuracy. Horses, guns, violence.

WORDS: 5.4k 🟪 READ ON AO3

Chapter 3 🟪 Chapter 5

Additional warning: there's sexual assault ⚠️ in this chapter, just a small scene, but I'll tag it nonetheless. Nothing too graphic, but the implication is there! Read at your own risk!

Chapter 4: The Truth

There are eleven people in this camp, Nebbia included, but there are more than a dozen horses, and she's only managed to take care of half of them before Ben beckons her into the shade near the tree line, close to where Thunder grazes, and presents her with food.

And only then does she notice that she's starving. She takes the steaming bowl with shaking fingers, not caring how dirty they are. Horses can be surprisingly dusty, and she can only imagine them running through sand storms or muddy terrain.

The mountain of a man sits on the ground, leaning against a log, his long legs stretched in front of him, one knee angled, his own bowl in one large hand while he pushes the soup's contents around with a spoon in the other. She settles next to him, bringing the stew to her nose and inhaling deeply. Vegetables, some sort of meat, a hearty broth, all so savory and delicious smelling, she feels her mouth watering just staring at it.

“So Ginny is the cook?” she asks with a side-glance. “And Milly the washer, the Stacys work in the supply tent, you are the horse guy,” she keeps listing. “Mitch runs the place and Steve... helps him? What do the three other men do?”

He watches her with an amused glint in his dark eyes. “They mostly sit around and drink,” he says with a deep chuckle. “They're more useful on... well, for other things, outside the camp.”

Nebbia stares at him, so many questions burning under her nails. But for now she focuses on the food, bringing the bowl to her lips and taking a cautious sip. Humming softly, she closes her eyes as the warm liquid runs down her throat.

“Also we do switch our chores, you know?” he adds while she enjoys her food. “I cook sometimes, or provide the meat. And I can stack boxes, too.”

She looks at him as she lowers the bowl and smirks at him. “Have you ever washed clothes over a washing board?” she teases lightly. “Or in the creek?”

“Milly never let me,” he replies with a wink. “And I do not want to mess with that woman!”

A laugh spills from her lips before she rolls her eyes. “Sure, Ben,” she says, holding his amused gaze. “You're afraid of a tiny little lady?”

“Those are the worst,” he chuckles, gently poking her with his elbow. “Right, short stuff?”

She shoots him a dark glare, but can't keep the smile down. It feels so easy to joke with him. “Oh, right you are, mister mountain! We're ankle-biters, after all!”

He nudges her again, giving her another wink before he goes back to eating his soup. She keeps looking at him as she does the same. They eat in comfortable silence, surrounded by the buzzing of insects, the neighing and snorting of the horses, and the bird song in the trees behind them. It's so peaceful, and she still wonders what the catch is.

How did she go from worrying about doing her job right and not dying doing it, to casually sitting on a meadow with this large man who is still technically a stranger to her – and despite it all, it feels right. Feels good. And she realizes she has missed being so... carefree. She hasn't been carefree since the day the Madam has told her she had to start serving men now.

Without training, without proper warning. That first night, with her first cock in her throat, she has wanted to die, to never do this again, because it had hurt so bad and was awful and dirty, and she has been so ashamed of it, disgusted by it. So much so she has scrubbed her tongue afterwards until it has bled.

And even though she has endured it, it never got easier, she always cared about it, about trying to make it better for herself, about doing a good job, about holding it together until the customer was gone. Then she would worry about the next one, and the next... An endless cycle of worries, and she only learned to hide her true feelings better, to pretend she didn't care.

But now she is here, worry-free, for now at least, sitting in the shade, eating a hearty meal, next to a nice man for once. And it all feels too good to be true...

“Penny for your thoughts?” Ben whispers beside her, leaning towards her. She flinches and almost drops the bowl.

“Uh, nothing,” she replies, giving him a weak smile, trying to focus on the stew in her hands.

“Really?” His voice is a low hum in the air.

She takes a deep breath. “What's the catch?” she then blurts out, putting the bowl to the ground next to her as she turns to him, eyes wide, eyebrows raised in worry.

“The catch?” he asks, deep lines on his forehead.

“This is all... well, it feels so different, so nice, so easy. And life isn't supposed to be that easy, is it?” She fidgets with the hitched-up part of her skirt, pulling her knees to her body and hiding them under the wide material.

“You sound awfully bitter for an eighteen-year-old,” he muses, scooting a little closer to her until she feels the warmth of his hip against hers. “But you're right, life isn't as easy as we sometimes wish it would be. But it's easier here, I promise. You're not alone, you're not forced to do things you don't want to do,” he adds, tilting his head to her as she cautiously turns hers towards him, meeting his gaze. His brown eyes are gentle, warm, inviting, she can't look away. “You can ask for help here. You can say no...”

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, contemplating his words, still fixated on him, and the elephant in the room. “What do you do, Ben? Outside the camp?” she then whispers, watching him frown slightly, before he looks away with a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Trying to make a living,” he then says quietly, his eyes wandering over the camp and the house in the distance, while hers wander over his body, the gun on his belt, the cowboy boots, the muscles in his exposed forearms. “With any means necessary,” he adds, causing a shiver to run down her spine.

She stares at him, torn between wanting to feel scared of the image that pops up in her head (Ben holding a gun to another man's head, his face hidden behind a bandana, his other hand closed around a sack of money or other loot) and wanting to justify his actions, wanting to see reason, to understand it. Making a living... by taking it from another? She remembers the supply tent, how well stocked it was, his room full of little boxes and trinkets, how much money he's spent on her last night.

“So, I was right?” she then whispers, licking her lips as she looks him over. “You are the type I would encounter on a Wanted poster?”

He looks at her, his face unreadable, eyes hard and slightly darker, his jaw clenched. Without saying anything, he tilts his body to the side and puts his hand into his back pocket, fishing out a folded piece of paper – that he hands to her.

She frowns, takes the paper and slowly unfolds it. The page is weathered, yellowish, crinkled. Its edges are sharp and rough as if it's been looked at a lot. And there it is, Ben's face, pencil drawn. He looks a little younger there, his hair a bit thicker, the beard less full, the shape of his jaw more defined. The eyes are the same, hard and deep, only with less lines around them.

There are words over and under it, but she can't read them, yet she assumes this is a Wanted poster, maybe it says Dead or Alive, listing his crimes in dark font she can't make out. She traces a finger over the picture of his face, trying to process what this means. He's an outlaw. A criminal. Wanted by the law. What did he do?

“I have another one,” he says quietly, watching her closely. “It's even older than that, about twenty years old.” She looks up at him, raising her eyebrows. Wordlessly he fingers another folded piece of paper out of the chest pocket of his shirt and holds it between his index and middle finger, asking her to take it. “It might surprise you...”

She doesn't know what to expect, but she takes it, unfolds it, looking between him and the even more yellowish paper, even more used than the other one that lies on her knees, Ben's drawn face looking up at her while the real one has his eyes fixed on her hands.

Inhaling deeply, she flattens the paper, more words on the top and the bottom, but this time there are two pictures on it. One of Ben, looking even younger, with just the shadow of a beard, nothing more than stubble, hollow cheeks and a straight nose, his face hard and his eyes even harder. And next to him, in the other picture, she sees...

Herself.

Her eyebrows furrow. It's a girl, with long wavy hair in a side braid (just like she has now), draped over one shoulder, a round face with a pointy chin and high cheekbones and a small nose, beautifully arched eyebrows and full lips, and eyes that pierce her soul. Even in the sepia tone of the aged paper and the fading black print, they are lighter, almost shimmering in the way they're drawn. Her eyes.

She looks up at Ben in slight surprise. “Is that...”

“Your mother,” he says softly, gently taking the paper from her shaking hands, now tracing his rough fingertip over the edges of the girl's face on it.

Nebbia doesn't know what to think. Seeing her mother on a Wanted poster does nothing to her. Somehow it fits the image she has of her, an outlaw would also abandon her child in a brothel, right? Something hot twists inside her stomach, something bitter at the edge of her throat.

“We were... a good team,” Ben continues with a smile, oblivious to her lack of reaction, as he stares at the drawn face in front of him. “They never got us, not for long anyways.”

“What did you do?” she whispers barely audible, leaning slightly closer to him as if the horses could listen in to their conversation. As if the camp surrounding them didn't already know what they were discussing. The camp of outlaws.

Ben looks up at her, quiet for a moment as his eyes wander over her face, the same face as on the paper in his large hands that he slowly, carefully, lovingly, folds up again without looking at it. “Taking from the rich. Sharing with the poor.”

He makes it sound so... poetic. “You've been robbers. Thieves,” she says, not even putting it as a question. “You're outlaws, wanted by the law...”

There's a twinkle in his brown eyes, before his lips tilt into a smirk. “Yes,” he replies quietly, holding her gaze. “Does that scare you?”

It should.

But then she thinks back to her initial thoughts about the man sitting next to her. Good guys, bad guys, does it even matter? In a world where a sheriff can treat her like the whore she's been, leaving her bloody and bruised, while an outlaw like Ben has treated her with so much respect she almost wishes he'd be a little rougher with her. Does it make sense? Probably not. Does it matter? Not really.

“No,” she says, as steady as she can manage. “You've not given me any reason to be scared.” Yet.

His smile is dazzling, his lips curl up over straight teeth, one very visible dimple on his bearded cheek, the lines around his eyes deepening. “And you don't have to worry about anything, sweetheart. No one's gonna harm you, me included.”

The corners of her mouth twitch, and she can't help it, she smiles back, her cheeks warming up, before she slowly lowers her eyes back to the poster on her knees, Ben's stoic face looking up at her. “What... what does it say?” she asks after a moment of silence, her finger tracing the letters she cannot understand.

He watches her, his smile fading. His hot breath hits her cheek as he exhales loudly while leaning over her, his arm draping around her shoulder before he takes her hand into his gently, guiding her finger to the top text. “This says WANTED,” he whispers, and she shivers as she feels the roughness of his beard against her cheek, while he moves her finger along the edges of the large letters. “That's my name,” he continues, showing her the line of letters beneath the title.

She holds her breath, the warmth of his touch making her feel dizzy. Her eyes wander from how his big hand holds her smaller one to his drawn picture. He moves their joined hands lower, to the lines below his face. “That's the reward.”

“How much is it?” she breathes, not daring to move much.

He huffs a laugh, his jaw moving against her cheek. He's so close, his touch gentle, his body leaned over her as he holds her hand, embracing her comfortably. “$1000.”

“Is that a lot?”

“Yes, quite the sum,” he replies, almost sounding proud. There's smaller lines of text below that, and he slowly drags her finger over each word as he lists them. “These are my... felonies,” he says quietly. “Stage coach robbery, train robbery, bank robbery, horse theft, trespassing, property destruction.” He pauses, her finger pressed to the last word. She can make out six letters.

She waits, breathing shallowly against him. “What's the last word?”

He inhales deeply, slowly letting go of her hand and leaning back, retrieving his arm. She watches him as he takes the paper from her, folds it back together, then slips it into his back pocket. Out of sight, out of mind. It still chills her to the bone when he stands up, looks down at her with dark eyes and replies: “Murder.”

A little gasp escapes her. Her eyes wander over his hands, those large hands, long fingers, with veins and tendons moving under tanned skin, the calloused feel of them, full of scars and scratches. And she hears the crack of a nose as he's slammed the same hand, a brutal fist, into the other man's face. Because he's called her a whore.

She doesn't know how she feels about it. He's a strong man, she's seen his muscles, felt his strength, witnessed his brutality, violence, but when she looks into his warm eyes, she cannot picture him murdering someone. Her mind still gives her possible images.

Bullets flying through the air in quiet hisses, wood splintering, meaty thuds when they hit their target, shouts, yells, cries of pain. Blood seeping into the dirt.

Her eyes move to the pistol peeking out of the holster on his hips.

The barrel of a gun pressed to someone's temple, a strong hand holding them in place. Whispered threats, wide eyes of the victim, and then a finger on the trigger, bending, pressing down. Muffled cries, the echo of a gunshot, then sudden silence. Blood everywhere.

She swallows hard and looks down, hugging her arms around her knees. A shadow looms over her, and she lets out a little shriek when Ben crouches down in front of her, his large hands on her knees, his eyes boring into hers.

“Don't be afraid of me,” he whispers, eyebrows furrowed. “And don't trust these words. There's always more to a story than a simple word...”

Tell me then, she thinks, her lips trembling, unable to get the thought out.

“I'll tell you another time,” he says softly, as if reading her mind, one hand moving up to cup her cheek, his thumb wiping over the corner of her mouth. She holds her breath, her heart thundering inside her chest. “Okay?” His question hangs in the air.

Are you okay with not asking any more questions for now?

She nods into his hand, and he smiles slightly, then leans up and presses his dry lips to her forehead before he straightens and holds out his hand to her. She looks up, confused, flustered, not sure how to act, but she grabs his hand and lets him pull her to her feet. He holds it for a moment longer, watching her closely.

“Alright,” he then says, letting go of her, rolling his shoulders. “Let's get back to work, hm?”

The sun is setting behind the house, tinting the whole camp in an orange hue. The horses have been fed and brushed, some of them have braids in their manes and tails now, and she looks back at the fifteen horses and recites their names in her head. She's always been good with names somehow.

On the other side of the meadow she sees Ben carrying a sack of feed towards the troughs. She gives the little chestnut girl named Foxie, who snorts and bows her head as she smiles at her, a last pet, a last praise (“Good girl, Foxie.”), and then makes her way to the tall man who dumps the sack with a low groan to the ground.

“Looking good,” he growls in his deep voice, rolling his shoulder as he takes a look around the meadow and the happy horses. “Not sure Bill will appreciate what you did to his Libby, though,” he adds with a smirk, and she looks back to the tall mouse gray mare whose black mane is decorated with little wild flowers and braids.

She huffs a little snicker, blushing slightly. “Might make his ride to the brothel more pleasant,” she says under her breath, and Ben looks at her and barks a loud laugh, his large hand coming up to pat her back playfully, causing her to stumble slightly.

“Good one,” he croaks out, shaking his head, his hand still resting on her back. “You're a feisty one, eh, Miss Nebbia?” he jokes with a wink.

Her cheeks burn up even more as she looks away, feeling the warmth of his touch through the thin fabric of her blouse.

“You'll fit right in here with us,” he says softly and leans slightly over her, his hand sliding down to her lower back.

She turns her head to him, giving him a timid smile. His brown eyes glow in the light of the setting sun, causing her to stare at them longer than is necessary. Appropriate. He nudges her side with his fingers and smirks at her, then lets go and walks past her.

“Come on now, I think you deserve a wash,” he tells her.

Her heart skips a beat as she thinks back to last night, sharing a bath with him. Even if it has been rather innocent, with both of them on either side of the tub and only the occasional touches (You had your foot on his cock, she remembers with a little gasp, is that considered innocent?), it hasn't left her mind, and the want is still there. The want for more.

Nebbia follows him back to the house, but instead of entering it, he takes a turn to the left and rounds the corner. She can see the sheets and clothes billowing in the soft evening breeze near the creek, a little behind the house, and Milly walking between them checking if they're dry already. What she hasn't noticed before is another area further to the left, fenced off with tarps, nestled between two large pines.

Ben stops in front of it, watching her closely. Once she approaches him, standing small before him, looking up with a curious furrow in her brows, he gives her a smirk and raises one corner of the tarp, showing her what's behind them. She frowns further. It's not what she has expected.

It is like somebody took a wooden barrel, sawed it in half and presented the new pieces as tiny bath tubs. She might fit into it if she squatted, but she couldn't see Ben fitting anywhere near those tubs, unless he'd use it as a foot bath. Her disappointment must have been visible on her face.

He laughs softly and leans closer. “Sorry, darling, looks like you gotta do that on your own this time.” Her head snaps to him, her lips parted. It's almost creepy how easily he can read her.

His large hand closes around her smaller one as he pulls her past the tarps, letting them fall behind them. The area is small, only the barrel tubs and a small fire-pit between them with a large pot full of water on it. It smells like soap and flowers.

“Looks like Milly has it all ready for you,” he says softly, testing the water with his pinky, raising his eyebrows in confirmation, nodding to himself. “Just get in the tub and use the ladle here,” he points to a large wooden ladle hanging from the pot, “to pour water over yourself to wash. Leave it in the tub when you're done. You think you can do that?” he asks with a teasing smirk.

She stares at him, then at the set-up around her, ignoring the tease in his voice. Her eyes wander to the second bath tub. “Will you... join me?” she whispers quietly, stupidly hopeful.

He scoffs a laugh, his hand on her shoulder. “No, this is for the ladies only. Us filthy men will wash in the creek. Milly's made that very clear.” She looks at him, smiling tightly, trying to hide the pout threatening to take over. He seems to notice the struggle and squeezes his fingers into her collarbone gently. “Have fun, sweetheart.”

With that he leaves her standing there, beside the steaming pot of water and the strange little bath tubs. The tarp flaps down again after he's gone. An unsteady breath escapes her. She feels strangely empty without him, alone, cold despite the fire burning beneath the pot. Somehow she's gotten used and accustomed to his large presence, and without it, she can barely breathe.

And it hasn't even been twenty-four hours.

She's spent the entire day with him, or in his close proximity, and last night has been... so intimate, even though nothing has happened (sexually), but he has been there, treating her right, being nice, giving her hope. And he took her with him, allowing her a chance, letting her sleep in his bed, inviting her to meet his people, fighting for her honor, giving her something to do, making her feel like part of something.

But she isn't part of anything if he's not here. It's a strange revelation, and she wonders how she's become so dependent on him, on anyone, when all her life she's been alone, despite being surrounded by so many people. The girls at the brothel haven't been friends, nor family, Madam Claire was not like a mother, more like a... mistress, not giving praise, but demands. Mary has been the only one who's looked out for her, at least a little over the last two years, checking in occasionally, and Nebbia realizes with a heavy heart that she may never see her again.

She wonders what she's doing right now, but then she knows what she's doing, or going to do this night. The same as every night.

It feels unreal to be away from there. Inhaling deeply, the warmth of soapy, flowery steam filling her lungs, she starts undressing, layer after layer, thinking about what she would be doing if she were back at the house.

Preparing for the night, making herself look presentable (knowing it wouldn't matter after the first client who will leave her covered in cum and saliva, her hair messed up from being gripped so hard, her rouge and lipstick smeared from being handled so roughly), and she'd wait, kneeling in front of the armchair by the fire, listening for those footsteps, waiting, waiting for the door to open, for the next customer to walk in.

And she can't even imagine how she would wait lying on the bed, waiting to be claimed, trying to fulfill her new role as a real lady of the night now that she's of age and ready, or expected to be ready. Luckily she may never find out what it will be like to have a random stranger take her however he wants, doing absolutely anything with her just because he's left some dollars in the greedy hands of Madam Claire.

She's been so lucky that the first man to barge through her door on the night of her initiation has been Ben.

Exhaling deeply, she feels a shiver rushing down her spine as she thinks of him, the mountain of a man, so much bigger, taller than her, the gentle giant, his large hands holding her safely, everything about him gives her peace, calms her down, except for the little throb between her legs and the rapid beat of her heart whenever he's close to her.

With her mind occupied with his brown eyes, his handsome face, the sound of his beard scraping over her skin, the strong twitch of the muscles in his arms, she steps into one of the wooden tubs, kneeling down in it, and starts pouring warm water over her stiff neck and shoulders, calming under the warmth and smell of it.

She doesn't notice the flap of the tarp being pushed back until it is too late.

⚠️ A large hand presses to her mouth, and she gasps against it, eyes wide as she stares up at the intruder. It is not Ben. Her heart beats so hard it hurts in her chest, panic gripping at every single nerve and muscle. She flails, struggles, writhes in the strong hold, tries to kick and get away, but the tall man (what's his name, one of those three?, she can't remember) grips her, lifting her up effortlessly, dragging her out of the tub.

Her feet scrape over the ground as she sinks her nails into his wrist, blinking rapidly, trying to see who the attacker is, she's usually so good with names, but she can't remember, can't think. Screaming into the hand on her mouth, she keeps kicking, until she gets kicked in the stomach. All air leaves her, all fight gone as she convulses in pain, stars dancing behind her eyelids.

She's thrown into the dirt, chin hitting the hard earth, causing her to groan, not immediately noticing that the hand is gone. A heavy boot presses between her shoulder blades, pushing her flat on her stomach, before a big hand grabs her wrists to hold them behind her back, the grip brutal, unyielding. She can't move, only kick her legs helplessly before she feels a knee pushing them apart.

Panicked wails escape her, and another hand grips her hair, twists it, almost rips it while the braid comes undone, presses her cheek into the ground, keeping her still, but only for a bit, as her attacker realizes he might need a hand to do what he wants to do. She's not stupid, she knows, she feels her hips being lifted, ass up, her knees pressed into the soil beneath her, hands held behind her back, a body pushing between her thighs, something hot and heavy slapping against her sex.

Whimpers, silent cries, hot tears streaming down her face. Not like this, she thinks. Please... not like this... “B-Ben...” she gasps, trying to think of him, imagining how he would take her for the first time. Definitely not like this, pushed into the dirt, held in an iron grip, exposed and helpless. A body to use, and nothing more. He'd treat her right... “Ben...”

“Shut up,” a low hiss comes to her ear, a rough voice, she has no idea who it belongs to, and then suddenly, a sharp pain on her butt cheek as a hand like a branding iron snaps against her soft flesh. She screams into the dirt, squirming helplessly. A grunt fills the steamy air, it's gotten darker around her, not just because she can barely breathe in her position, with the pain of the slap throbbing through her body, but the sun is gone. It's dark and hopeless. Something hard pokes at her entrance.

“Ben!” she cries out through a curtain of tears, with the last bit of strength, courage, she can muster. The person behind her pauses, curses, and suddenly she's being pushed further into the ground, dirt scraping over her bare breasts, then hurried, receding footsteps, the tarp flaps, cold air brushes over her raised ass.

She falls to her side, still in that awkward position, massaging her hurting wrists behind her back, breathless, unable to do anything else. /⚠️

And suddenly he's there, his large hands picking her up carefully, lifting her onto strong arms, pressing her to his warm chest. “What happened?” she hears his deep voice. “Who did this?”

She blinks, feels him scraping dirt off her cheek, wiping at her tears. Her arms wrap around his neck as she holds onto him. “I-I don't kn-know...” she stammers, shivers. He inhales deeply, a rumble through his chest.

He sets her down for a moment, on trembling legs, it's cold, but her skin burns. Wrapping a blanket around her, covering her up, he picks her up again, cradling her in his arms as he carries her out of the bathing area, towards the house. “Are you hurt?” he whispers, his voice strained, as if he's holding back his anger.

A fist in another man's face. She flinches at the memory.

“N-no,” she breathes, leaning against him, cocooned in the blanket, unable to touch him. “They left before –” they could soil my innocence, she thinks in both terror and relief.

Her eyes wander up to him. Even in the dark she can see the muscle moving beneath his skin as he clenches his jaw tightly. He brings her to his room, not saying anything, sets her down on his bed, covers her in even more blankets. She tries to free her hands, and when she manages to slip one out of her cocoon, she grabs his wrist, holding him back, looking up in desperation. “Don't leave,” she murmurs under her breath.

He stares at her, his face hard, like the one on his Wanted posters. Murder. The word echoes in her head, and she can see this man looming over her doing just that. But she isn't afraid of him, she's... glad. In a twisted sort of way. Knowing what he is capable of. The strength in his arms, his body.

But when he closes his long fingers around her hand and sits down on the edge of the bed, she's relieved he doesn't follow the urge to repeat the crime she has yet to learn more about.

Struggling out of her blankets, she breaks free and throws herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck, presses into him, desperate to feel his warmth, his strong hands on her, comfort, ease, reprieve. He slowly curls his arms around her, one hand holding onto her waist, the other cups around her shoulder, as he embraces her tightly, leaving no room for sorrows.

A tiny voice in her mind complains already. Nothing happened. Stop whining about this. You're fine.

But she doesn't feel fine, because something did happen. She was attacked, inside the camp that was supposed to be her new home. In the rare moments where she was alone, without Ben. It hasn't even been twenty-four hours since she left the safety of the house to live in the real world...

A new wave of hot tears spills from her lashes, soaking into the collar of his shirt, her tiny sobs swallowed by how she presses her face into his neck. She feels him inhaling deeply, his grip on her tightening, trying to squeeze every bad thing out of her.

“Shh, it's okay,” he hums against her, his rough chin pressed to the top of her head. His voice and words sink into her cold skin, heating her up from within. “I've got you, baby girl.”

Chapter 3 🟪- Chapter 5

END NOTES: Oh the trauma (and all of it just so I could make Ben call her baby girl)!

I gotta say, I love me some dependency and hurt/comfort, even though I'm sorry for what I make happen to poor Nebbia. But it's needed to have these lovely bear hugs...

By the way, I was debating back and forth about the reward sum (again something that comes up once and doesn't matter but I still fixate on it every fucking time): When I played RDR2, all those bounties only ever gave $100 tops, and when looking at the Wanted posters of Dutch and Co. they had much larger sums, but they've been at it a long time, and ooh the stuff they did. But Ben? I didn't want him to be as cold-blooded as the people in the game, but still a criminal worth something, so in the end I settled on $1000. Might make sense, might not, does it matter? Not really. Just sharing my thought process here again, forgive me.

Anyway, back to the growing relationship between Ben and Nebbia. The plot is finally thickening and more things will happen! Stay tuned!

Thank you for reading! Next chapter on Friday!

AO3 -- MASTERLIST -- INSPIRATION POSTS

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azures-bazar · 2 years ago

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Fairest of Them All

That's a long one, I'm being quite busy these days because of my new job so let's say my mistakes are mostly due to me writing this by night :') Remember, I'm French and I'm terribly sorry for my humble grammar.

I'm even roasting French champagne here lol

Female reader this time, I'd love to make a male version someday ! Next one will be a Kieran x GenderNeutral!Reader one shot (if I have time) !

Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader

Word count : 2.5k

Short summary : You were invited to the Mayor’s party along with Dutch, Hosea and Arthur. However, you were tasked to arrive a some time after them.

A/Note : First female fiction, let’s give this a try ! This is basically taking place during The Gilded Cage mission, with slight changes.

Tags : beautiful red dress, fireworks, chapter 4, Arthur is absolutely thrilled, all eyes on you, love, you are BEAUTIFUL (yes)

What a peculiar party ! This is what Arthur thought while looking around, lost among all these guests, all dressed up for the occasion. He analysed mens silhouettes, their top hats and fancy suits, some of them wore gloves while drinking this expensive champagne common people could never afford. According to Mayor Lemieux, who could be heard nearby, he had ordered these fancy bottles from France. Arthur had tried some of it and, unfortunately, it was not as good as he thought… but not many folks would ever have the opportunity to taste such an expensive beverage ! He would have been a fool not to try it, it was probably his only chance. Despite looking exactly like a man from the upper class, holding his glass of champagne while trying to take part to a random conversation, Arthur felt mostly uncomfortable.

Arthur quickly glanced at women around him, wearing their most sumptuous dresses. The shapes of their bustles were exactly the same, their sleeves were mostly large and puffy, giving the illusion that their waists were quite small. Some of them wore extravagant accessories, pearl necklaces, rings and bracelets along with feathers or flowers in their hair, while men were mostly displaying their extravagance in tiny details like golden pocket watches, silky cravats or brooches attached to the top of their black jackets. Arthur felt like an intruder, a stranger. Dutch and Hosea had a natural ease with these people, even Bill was trying his best to fit in ! But Arthur was not, he could not.

"What a nice party !" a woman said. "This champagne is remarkable !"

"Indeed it is !" a man sounded. "It comes straight from France ! "

People kept talking around him, this overwhelming crowd made it uneasy to focus on what he had to do. Retrieve informations for Bronte would be quite difficult as his attention was triggered by every single sound he heard : clinging glasses, footsteps and laughs were quick for him to feel lost. He kept glancing around him to see if Hosea was nearby. Dutch would frequently check on him while still trying his best to keep up in many conversations, but Arthur felt like a child lost in a crowd of people dressed in fancy outfits, deeply wishing to go home. Yes, he wanted to go back to Shady Belle and lay on his bed, he didn’t even want to be here !

Meanwhile, you entered the mansion and were quickly greeted by Angelo Bronte, was surrounded by his men. He had expressly told Dutch to bring you along. Your presence was requested, Dutch obliged and sent you and the girls to Saint-Denis' tailor to get you one of the most beautiful dresses the shop could offer. You had first suggested to wear Molly’s dress, but the latter was already jealous enough for you to feel bad about your invitation. Molly possessed this beautiful black and green dress with golden layers which could fit you but was told by Dutch that she would not come with them. You were there to witness her sudden sadness as you were leaving with the girls to get dressed in a bedroom they rented in Saint-Denis.

"Looking good in this dress, Miss Y/SN." Bronte said

This dress was large but beautiful, looking quite similar to the ones worn by the beginning of the decade, if not even prior. The back of its skirt was quite puffy, reminiscing of the bustle era from the late 1860s, but Tilly managed to make it look a little more modern to fit the current fashion standards. It had four shades of red with white layers and a nice ivory bow holding your waist. Your shoulders were bare, but you did not mind much. Mary-Beth had crafted you a matching necklace and managed to steal Molly’s black gloves to complete your gorgeous attire. Your corset was tight, but you did not care. In fact, you felt great in this dress.

"Your acolytes have arrived." Bronte restarted. "You may join them."

"Am I late ?" you asked

"Certainly not."

The girls had managed to get someone to give you a proper ride to the Mayor’s house, wishing you luck. Bronte was already there, waiting for you. He kissed your gloved hand and placed it on his arm, guiding you through the entrance hall of the house towards the back garden. You nervously glanced around, observing this beautiful and large mansion, still keeping an eye on Bronte’s overall behaviour. You had a knife attached to one of your thighs, nobody would suspect such a beautiful lady enough to ask you to lift your dress up to show them if you were hiding any weapons underneath. In order to avoid any doubts regarding your presence, Bronte had mentioned that you were his niece and that he wanted you to get more familiar to Saint-Denis’ high society. You knew about that as soon as he introduced you to a man in the back of the Mayor’s mansion.

"This is my niece, Viola." Bronte smiled as the other man kissed your hand

"Viola…?" you whispered, quickly sending an awkward glance towards Bronte’s men

"What a beautiful niece you have here, Signor Bronte !" the man smiled. "I hope you will enjoy this party, Mademoiselle."

You had no time to respond, Bronte had dragged you to the door leading to the back garden. You grumbled a little, feeling uncomfortable. You did not look like him, how could anyone believe the two of you were related ? You sighed as Bronte’s men opened the door, allowing you finally get to the garden. People were suddenly rendered silent to the sight of Bronte holding you under his arm.

Quite surprised by the sudden lack of talks which had been overwhelming for endless minutes, Arthur turned back to the doors and gasped. As he noticed you, holding Bronte’s arm with the most confused face he had ever seen, his heart suddenly stopped beating. You hated dragging everyone’s attention on you, and people’s silence made you feel uneasy, despite the music was still being played. Arthur watched Bronte whisper something to your ear and gently push you forward, you went downstairs as people restarted chatting. However, Arthur was, once and for all, lost in his deepest thoughts.

While looking at you going downstairs in your beautiful red dress, Arthur felt like time had stopped. He could no longer hear people talk around him, some of them were nearly gone. The rest of the world did no longer exist to his eyes, and the only clear thing he could see was you. You, beautifully joining the rest of the guests, shyly turning your face down, unable to look at these people. Arthur only had eyes for you, only you. Your beauty had made him loose his composure, he kept his eyes wide open as you finished your descent, gently grabbing a glass of champagne a waiter had quickly presented to you.

"Jesus Christ…" Arthur mumbled

You were beautiful, so beautiful ! This dress suited you so much and was so flattering, your hairstyle was perfect… everything Arthur could see led him to think he was looking at the most beautiful angel of a Renaissance painting. Only you, Tilly and Mary-Beth had the opportunity to see the dress, leaving Arthur, Dutch, Hosea and Bill mesmerised by the way it suited you. Arthur wanted to run to you and compliment you. He loved the way you looked, the way you walked around, the way you were holding yourself. Despite noticing how uncomfortable you were, Arthur was baffled by your capacity to act like a woman of Saint-Denis’ high society !

Dutch and Hosea were proud of the way you acted, they had taught you right. Since your arrival, back where you were in your mid-teens, Hosea had taught you to perform scams, but also to behave depending on your surroundings. You were a chameleon, taught so well that nobody could have guessed your true nature. Even you felt strange when you had first looked in the mirror after putting this dress on !

Arthur was about twenty-five when you came and had always been friendly towards you. He had seen you grow and mature into the woman you were that day. However, your relationship had been quite peculiar since a few months, as Arthur had appeared to display evident signs of attraction towards you, awkwardly offering you flowers he would leave by your tent or drawings he would hide under your pillow. That Blackwater incident had brought the two of you much closer, enough for you not to bother about kissing him before the rest of the gang anymore. However, that night, you had to forget about this idea.

Arthur was dragged out of his thoughts by a man gently tapping his shoulder. In fact, he had completely stopped his sentence in the middle of a conversation about Wapiti Indians. He softly apologised to the group of people surrounding him, taking a step back. In no way could he not go and, at least, break Dutch’s command and talk to you. He could not avoid it, you were like a magnet, waiting there alone by the gazebo.

"‘Scuse me." Arthur said, walking away

You could not hold your smile as you noticed Arthur walking towards you, his eyes wide open, unable to look away. How beautiful you were, even sipping some champagne, finding its taste rather common and not worth these compliments people kept making about it and its provenance. Arthur stood before you for a second, so mesmerised by your beauty that he could not even say a word, his smile being so sweet and genuine that it made you chuckle at little. You knew you had won his heart just by looking at him.

"Good evening, Miss." Arthur said, gently taking your gloved hand to kiss it

"Sir." you smiled back

"M-may I say… you look gorgeous tonight, Miss."

"Thank you, Sir."

Arthur smiled even more. People started dancing waltz near you, you gently placed your glass on the nearest table and caught Arthur's hand to dance with him. He was terrified, for some reason. Terrified and thrilled to dance with you. He was good at it, Dutch had taught him some easy moves back when he was younger, but your beauty was quick to make him loose his self control. He placed his hand on your waist and started dancing with you while people minded their own business, except Dutch. Despite you looked absolutely adorable together, Arthur had disobeyed his orders. The two of you had different tasks for the night, you were not even supposed to talk to each other… but it was too late.

"Enjoyin’ the party, Miss Y/SN ?" Arthur asked

"It’s Miss Bronte for tonight, Sir." you calmly responded with a quick wink. "Viola Bronte."

"Oh, didn’t know Signor Bronte had relatives in Saint-Denis, Viola Bronte."

"Me neither."

The two of you chuckled, looking into each other’s eyes for a moment while dancing. Arthur would have wanted to dance all night long with you, he would have wanted to be alone with you. Just the two of you. You were like a star to his eyes, the most beautiful star, she most shiny one. Among these women, only you had caught Arthur’s whole attention. Your attitude, posture, attire… there was no doubt, he loved you. You were the fairest of them all.

You kept looking into his starry eyes, his smile was the beautifulest gift he could offer you. His puppy glance and sweet facial expression were worth everything, it was hard to resist to the temptation to kiss him right away. In fact, it had always been hard not to give up and do whatever he wanted, his eyes would win you over anytime !

"You’re beautiful." he said, blushing a little

You were like magnets, unable to be taken away from each other. Nobody could separate you in your dance, not even fireworks which were launched by the end of this modernised version of one of Bach’s symphonies. You quickly turned to the sky to watch them, your mouth remained half opened as you did not even notice you were still holding onto Arthur’s hand. Neither you nor him could take your eyes away from the fireworks, you kept smiling while looking at them until Dutch passed by you, giving Arthur the task to subdue some papers while you had to distract the maids.

"Get inside, lovebirds." he said. "Don’t get caught, we’ve got papers to retrieve."

The two of you went back inside but neither you nor Arthur could hold it any longer. As soon as got hidden into the Mayor’s office after closing all doors around you, Arthur quickly walked to you and took you by the waist, giving you the most passionate kiss he could offer. Waiting for so long to finally be able to hold you against him… was a hard thing to endure !

You held his face between your hands, running your fingers through his short beard. He even applied some Cologne ! You felt his tongue crossing yours, making you shiver of excitement. This was obviously not the best place for the two of you to do something… beyond your tasks, but you still allowed Arthur to run his hands on your thighs while gently pressing your lips against his. Your heart rate increased as you heard someone walk past the room, causing Arthur to jump back from you and crouch under the desk, dragging you with him while chuckling.

"Is there someone here ?"

"Get down !" he whispered

One of Bronte’s men had just walked into the room. Arthur kept his finger on his smiling mouth while holding you close to him, waiting for the footsteps to vanish in the distance. The two of you felt like children playing hide and seek, but the festivities had to stop, unfortunately. As Arthur took your hand to help you going leaving your hiding spot, he gently kissed the top of your head.

"Let’s go home, sweetheart." he whispered, taking your hand. "We’ll continue what we started there."

to be continued, maybe -

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #chapter 4 #arthur morgan #the gilded cage #cute #historical fashion #rdr2 #red dead redemption fanfiction #rdr2 fanfic #saint denis #you are beautiful and deserve love #red dead redemption 2 #azurestales

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