#you can't stop Arthurs brain from Doing The Thing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

javier-pena · 1 year ago

Text

embers

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader

Word Count: 9.5k

Rating: Explicit

Summary: You're engaged to be married to a man you've never met. Arthur Morgan is supposed to escort you across the country to meet him. You should keep your distance, but the dangers of the road bring you closer and closer together with each passing mile.

Notes: So there's this post ... and It has been on my mind for months so I had to write this exact scenario with Arthur, naturally. Again, this is way longer than it was supposed to be, but working on this fic allowed me to daydream a lot, so I can't complain. As always, I wouldn't have been able to do it without Dani @alexturner, who pushed me in the right direction and came up with the ending (because I'm not good at writing those)!!

***

You’re not pretty. At least that’s what everyone told you from the moment you could understand those words. Your mother, the maid she hired to look after you, the boys working for your father, the marm, the people in town. Since you were little, you’ve been hearing it over and over again. “It’s such a shame she ain’t pretty, what’s she gonna do with brains?”

The thing is, you also don’t feel very smart. If you were, you’d have found a way to leave your godforsaken town for one of the big cities in the east as soon as you could read the timetable down by the train station. You would’ve found a way to get out of this marriage your father arranged for you. Ambrose Longabaugh was his name. Ambrose Longabaugh. From what you have heard, he shares your lot: anything but handsome, but at least he has money.

No one was sad to see you go, save for your little brother, who held you tight and made you promise to come back if you didn’t like your betrothed. You had promised, knowing you were lying. It didn’t matter if you liked him or not, he was the man you were going to marry. You weren’t getting out of this. Your father had made sure of that.

Mr. Morgan is riding ahead of you, sitting in the saddle with his shoulders slumped, a cigarette dangling between his lips. You can smell the smoke on the crisp fall air, even though you’re trying to keep your distance. It’s not that he scares you – not as much as other men do, not as much as your future husband does – but you don’t like him very much. Your father is paying him to take you out west where Ambrose Longabaugh will one day take over his father’s cattle business. And Mr. Morgan is doing it without complaint, hardly acknowledging your presence. He talks more to his horse than he talks to you.

You let your eyes wander across the mountains around you and sigh. The first time you had seen them, your mouth had hung open in awe. Now you feel trapped by them. You can’t go back, and there’s only one way forward. You sigh again. No, you’re neither pretty nor smart.

“Break?” Mr. Morgan asks from up front. It’s only the fifth word he has said to you today; the others were good morning and let’s go.

“Yes,” you agree, not because you need it but because it gives you something else to do.

You stop near a small river with a shallow bank where Mr. Morgan can refill your waterskins. While he’s busy, you stretch your legs and pick up a few rocks from the riverbed to toss them into the water. The rushing of the water fills your ears, drowning out both thoughts and sounds. You take a deep, calming breath and close your eyes.

When you open them again, Mr. Morgan has taken off his lambskin coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He’s washing his face and neck in the cold water of the river, a wet stain forming on his collar, drops running down his lean, muscular forearms that are still tan from working outdoors all summer. Your face heats up with an emotion you don’t quite understand, and you turn away from him, pretending to be interested in some moss-covered rocks. You’re not supposed to look.

He startles you when he touches your arm lightly, making you turn around. You hadn’t heard him coming over the sounds of the river. His coat is back on, but you can see his neck glistening in a few places still.

“You shouldn’t wander, ma’am,” he says. That’s four more words for today.

You look around. “Indians, right?” you ask with a small laugh.

His face remains serious. “No. White men. Gangs. They like to hide out here.”

You watch his Adam’s apple move as he swallows and your throat immediately mimics his. “Then why are we taking this road if it’s so dangerous?”

He shrugs. You realize he hasn’t let go of your arm yet. “It’s fast.”

“My father –”

“Your father planned this route.”

You swallow again. “I’ll be careful, sir. Thank you.” He lets go of your arm then, and you walk back to your horse, your face now heating up with an emotion you definitely recognize: embarrassment.

You make camp later that day where the trees are standing close together. While he builds a fire, you pick at a pine cone you found on the ground. Somewhere in the distance you hear a howl, but you’ve learned that if it’s not loud enough to make Mr. Morgan look up from his task, then it’s nothing to be worried about. And he stokes the fire, eyes fixed to the flames.

After dinner, he hands you a small bottle and when the sharp taste of whiskey makes you cough, he smirks. So you take another sip, holding his gaze. He looks away first, pulls a torn-up pack of cigarettes from his coat, and offers you one. You accept, surprised.

“Don’t let my father find out you’re corrupting me,” you tease.

He only makes, “Hm,” in response.

The smoke from the cigarette burns your throat, just like the whiskey, but this time you manage to suppress the cough. “Do you have family, Mr. Morgan?” you ask, watching how he uses a branch to stoke the fire.

“No,” is his simple reply.

Now it’s your turn to make, “Hm,” before you add, “No one you’re sweet on?”

You don’t really care about the answer, why would you? But when he gives you another, “No,” a careful one, it makes your heart pound faster. Until he turns the tables.

“What about you?”

“Oh,” you say, “I don’t know, I haven’t met my fiancé yet.” And you don’t want to be thinking about him right now.

Mr. Morgan looks at you, his head cocked to one side. “Come now,” he pushes, as if you’re being evasive on purpose. “That ain’t what I’m askin’.”

You sigh. “It’s not? I’m spoken for. I have no business thinking about other men.” You don’t mean to be so frank, but the words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. And you can tell from the look on Mr. Morgan’s face that he still thinks you’re not honest with him.

“Hm,” he makes, and you dread what might be coming next.

“I’m going to bed,” you tell him, putting an end to your conversation. He opens his mouth to add something, but you don’t give him a change. You lie down and pull your thin blanket over your body, face hot with embarrassment. The last thing you see before falling asleep is Mr. Morgan staring at the flames, a quiet smile on his lips.

Later that night, you wake up to shouts. What pulls you from your sleep entirely is a gunshot that reverberates through the forest. “Mr. Morgan?” you shout, because he isn’t sitting next to the fire anymore and you can’t see him anywhere. Then you hear a sound that makes your blood run cold, a snarl, a growl, but animalistic, wild, unlike anything you’ve ever heard. You jump up from your bedroll, ready to run, but then you remember Mr. Morgan’s warning. It’s better to stay here, in the light of the dwindling fire, than to take your chances out there. “Mr. Morgan?” you try again, this time a hiss, as you frantically search the darkness beyond your camp. It gets so dark out here at night.

A shout is your answer, a deep, “Hey!” Short and fast. The horses whinny, and you’re only now realizing they’re stomping the ground, tearing up the soil with their hooves, the whites in their eyes visible, ears pressed tightly back. You try to swallow your panic, but it gets harder with every passing second.

Then something moves between the trees and Mr. Morgan stumbles back into the camp, a gun in one hand, a torch in the other. He has a wild look in his eyes too, just like the horses, but when they land on you, he relaxes, his face assuming its usual, stoic mask. “Mountain lion,” he says. “It’s gone.”

“What does that mean?” you ask, your voice trembling.

“Chased it off,” he explains. “It ain’t coming back here.”

“The horses …,” you start.

But he walks toward the fire, toward you. “You did good,” he says, dropping to his knees next to you, so close, too close. You can smell the gunpower on him, and the sweat; you’ve never been so close to a man before, not even your own father. “Here.” He hands you the whiskey again. “It’s gone, I promise.”

You wish your hands wouldn’t shake so much. He grabs yours with one to steady, his warm skin like fire against yours, unscrews the stopper with the other, not with impatience but oh so gently. You manage to take a sip on your own, but he watches you intently for any signs of distress.

“You’ll have to get used to it,” he says, stowing away the bottle. “This land out here … it’s wild.”

You nod. Now that the initial burst of panic is dulled, you feel tears sting your eyes.

“But you’ll manage.” His voice is so calming. “You’re a brave girl.”

*******

The hooves of your horse pound out a slow, steady beat against the hard ground. You’re tired, every muscle in your body is sore, but you push on without complaint, following Mr. Morgan up a winding mountain and back down on the other side. The days are so similar they’re bleeding into one – the mountain lion … did it attack three nights ago? Five? You don’t remember. All you know is that your heart picks up speed when he looks at you, that every evening your conversation around the fire becomes a little bit longer, that you wish you could go on like this forever, never to arrive at your destination.

Sometimes at night, when you can’t sleep but you pretend to, you can hear him sing, sometimes to himself, sometimes to the horses. Your heart almost flies out of your chest when he does it. He hasn’t touched you anymore since the night of the mountain lion attack, but you wish he would. Even though everything else about him confuses you, you wish you could feel his skin against yours again; such longing, it almost consumes you.

Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? Did your cousin feel like this when she ran off with that cowboy? Did your mother and father feel like this; is that why they got married? Are you supposed to feel like this when you meet your fiancé? Or is this something else entirely? Is there something wrong with you?

“Break?” he asks once the ground is beginning to even out.

“You know, you keep asking for breaks so much I’m starting to think you don’t want us to reach our destination,” you tease.

He just shrugs and stops his horse. You halt too and climb off, your legs steady when they hit the ground. It wasn’t like that in the beginning; the first few days he had to help you off your horse and you could barely stand. It’s astonishing what a difference a few weeks can make.

You stretch, then begin to walk up and down the path. It’s cold, sitting so still up on that horse, and you flex your fingers, trying to get some feeling back into them. Mr. Morgan, meanwhile, sits down on a tree stump to write in a leather-bound notebook. You’ve seen him use it before but you don’t quite know what it’s for. He’s probably tracking your progress or taking notes on the weather.

Careful to keep him in sight, you veer off into the underbrush, looking at the trees and the different kinds of plants growing on the ground. You pretend you can read the language of the forest, looking for tracks of animals or some mushrooms you might be able to eat. Just like you’ve seen Mr. Morgan do countless of times. When you do find something, you’re not sure what to make of it.

“Mr. Morgan?” Your voice is raised as you try to keep it steady.

You hear his footsteps immediately but you don’t dare to turn around, your eyes fixed on the sight before you. He stops next to you, and you can hear his steady breathing. The knot in your chest immediately dissolves.

“Hm,” he makes.

“What happened here?” you ask. Now the tremor in your voice is all too audible.

He hesitates just for a second, weighing his options, but then he says, “Some people were camping here, a family by the looks of it.”

“Where are they?” you ask, finally turning toward him. The cold, calculating look on his face sends a shiver down your spine.

“Ma’am …,” he says slowly.

“You can tell me. I can handle the truth.”

You look back at the burned-out wagon, the torn clothes hanging from tree branches, all that blood on a log next to a cold fire pit. You don’t need him to tell you. You just want him not to confirm your suspicions.

“They’re dead,” he answers. “Killed. For money.”

“All of them?” you ask.

He winces. “If there were women …”

“Can’t we help them?” You know you can’t, but you wish there was something you could do.

“Stay on the path next time,” he growls. “No more wanderin’ ‘round … ma’am.”

“Mr. Morgan …,” you try, but he’s already trudging back toward the horses.

You spend the rest of the day in silence, riding next to each other but avoiding each other’s gazes. You shouldn’t have called out to him; it was obvious what had happened in that camp. They were a group, and you’re just two people … your father couldn’t have known about the dangers of this journey, or he wouldn’t have made you go. He would’ve found another way. At least that’s what you’re telling yourself. Because you don’t want to even consider the other option and what it would mean. When the sun slowly disappears behind the mountains around you, dread settles onto your heart, the heavy kind you haven’t felt since you were a little girl, afraid of the dark.

Finally, Mr. Morgan stops his horse. “We camp here tonight. No fire.”

“It’s so dark,” you whisper.

“The darkness ain’t what’ll kill you,” he growls.

You can’t sleep; of course not. So you watch him all night, sitting up straight next to you, not so close that you could touch him, but close enough so you’ll always see he’s there. He doesn’t sleep either but he sits very still, keeping his eyes on the path, making sure nothing evil comes out of the dark. And you wish all you had to worry about were mountain lions.

*******

Two days later, Mr. Morgan’s face is pale and you’re frozen through. You haven’t had a warm meal since you found that destroyed camp, and Mr. Morgan has barely slept. You haven’t talked at all, apart from the necessities. And still you haven’t left those mountains and woods behind you. At least the daylight makes you feel less afraid.

“Is it far still?” you ask when the silence becomes unbearable.

“A week,” he answers, looking up at the sky, “if it doesn’t snow.”

The weather is the least of your worries. “And how long before we’re past the mountains?” You hate them now as much as they awed you at first.

“Three days maybe.”

Three more days without warm food. You straighten your back. “Have you come this way before?”

“Yes.”

“Has anything ever happened to you?” You don’t know if you’d prefer confirmation or denial.

“You’re safe with me, so don’t you worry about that.” There’s something in the way he says it that makes your grip tighten on the reins.

“I’m not worried,” you lie. “Just curious.”

“Hm,” he makes before going back to observing the surroundings with caution. “Bad people are everywhere. Not just here.”

“That’s a grim way to look at the world.” You try for a teasing tone, but it sounds like you’re reprimanding him instead.

“You ain’t seen much of it then,” he replies.

“More than you know.”

He looks at you curiously, just for a moment. “You –” he starts, but a shout ahead on the path interrupts him.

“Hey!”

You almost jump out of your skin and stop your horse reflexively. That’s your first mistake. The second one is to shout, “Arthur!” Because it costs him valuable seconds, that distraction. He turns around to look at you, and then suddenly two men are on him, pulling him out of the saddle. Two more appear next to you, a young, handsome one with a dark mustache and darker eyes, and a man your father’s age, but scrawny, with a mouth full of yellow teeth that he exposes to you in an ugly grin. You pull on the reins and your horse dances nervously, ears pressed tightly against its head. And then you hear a shot.

A fifth man stands in the middle of the path, a smoking gun held high over his head. His thick, gray beard quivers as he shouts, “Everybody stay calm and no one is gonna get hurt!”

You look at Mr. Morgan for guidance and see him struggle against the two men who are restraining him by holding his arms tightly pressed against his back. His pants are dirty from where he hit the ground when they pulled him off his horse.

“Get her down from there,” the man with the gray beard barks, and before you can do anything, thin but strong fingers have closed around your arm and you tumble out of the saddle with a shout.

The man who is holding you stinks of rotting things and nicotine. He twists one of your arms until it is pressed flush against your back and uses his other hand to hold your chin, so you’re forced to look straight ahead at the man with the mustache.

“Pretty little thing, ain’t she?” he snarls, and the other man licks his lips.

“We just want your valuables,” Graybeard says to Mr. Morgan.

“We ain’t got any,” he growls.

“I’m sure you don’t,” is the calm answer as Graybeard starts going through the saddlebags of Mr. Morgan’s horse.

You roll your shoulders but the man with the rotting teeth only tightens his hold on you. His companion takes a few careful steps toward you. A lump is forming in your throat as you begin to realize just how dangerous this situation is. You try to kick back, like a horse, but you miss your captor. It only earns you a cruel laugh and a pinch to your cheek.

Somewhere to your right, you hear a dull thud and a pained groan coming from Mr. Morgan. You try to look at him, but you can’t move, not because you’re being restrained but because fear has taken over your body and you can’t do anything but relinquish control.

“Check her horse,” Graybeard orders, but the man with the mustache doesn’t move. He’s only a few steps away from you now, his eyes hungrily roaming over your body. “Now!” Graybeard barks.

“There isn’t -,” you start, but the man who is restraining you clamps a hand over your mouth. You could vomit when you taste his skin.

“There’s this,” the man with the mustache says, holding up a cheap necklace your mother gave you as a parting gift.

“Take it,” Graybeard orders.

“What about her?” the rotting man asks and shakes you.

“Her too,” Graybeard answers with a nod. “Shoot the man.”

“No!” you shout, even though it makes the disgusting man get more of his fingers in between your lips.

The man with the mustache stuffs your mother’s necklace into the pocket of his jacket, then walks over to you. You can hear the blood rushing in your ears as he grips your skirt and begins to pull it upward so your boots and then your drawers are slowly exposed. A hot tear rolls down your cheek but it only makes him smile.

“I bet you’re lovely.” His voice is deep, almost as deep as Mr. Morgan’s, but hearing him speak only fills you with revulsion. “I bet you’re all tight …” He lightly strokes your cheek, then uses his free hand to unbutton his trousers.

“No!” you shout again, but it’s muffled, and your feeble attempts to free yourself are met with an evil snicker.

Then you hear a shot and all the life goes out of your body. It’s done. You’re alone now. And if you’re lucky, you’ll soon be dead too. Two more shots ring through the forest, each one as painful as if you’ve been hit by the bullets yourself. The man with the mustache doesn’t even flinch. His trousers hang open now, and you can see dark hairs peek out from between the fabric, before he cups one of your breasts hard and licks a broad stripe up your neck.

The other man moans, low, wetly, and it’s the most disgusting sound you’ve ever heard. He lets go of you, but it’s too late; you can’t run anymore. A wet, dull sound is followed by another moan, and you know exactly what he’s doing. You’ve heard people talk about it, even though you don’t quite know what it means when a man touches himself. All you know is that you feel bile rise at the thought of it.

The man with the mustache freezes and looks behind you, his eyes wide with shock. Maybe they have a different bargain, maybe he wants to keep you for himself and feels threatened. But then, so fast he’s only a blur, Mr. Morgan rushes past you, grabs the man by his collar, and pulls him off you, landing a punch against his jaw. You blink a few times as both men go down, not sure if what you’re seeing is real or if it’s a vision your panicked brain conjured up to calm you. The man with the mustache lands a kick between Mr. Morgan’s legs, gaining the upper hand. He pulls a knife from his boot while he straddles your companion to pin him down, but Mr. Morgan doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the man’s arm and bites down until he lets go of the knife. You catch a glimpse of Mr. Morgan’s eyes and where you expected him to be all feral rage, he’s cold and calculating. It sends a shiver down your spine and you stumble back a few paces until you step into something soft that squelches on impact. You don’t have to look down to know what it is.

Despite the loss of his knife, the man with the mustache is putting up a good fight. He lands a blow in Mr. Morgan’s face, then scrambles off him, grabs the knife, and pushes himself upward. Mr. Morgan moves faster than you’ve ever seen him move, jumping up while dodging the glinting blade of the knife.

“Stay down, big boy,” the man sneers.

Mr. Morgan shoves into him with such force the knife ends up in the dirt again, right next to the two men. But this time, Mr. Morgan has the upper hand, landing blow after blow in the face of the other, grunting with grim satisfaction when he draws blood, continuing even when the man retches up blood and spits it in Mr. Morgan’s face. He doesn’t stop until the man doesn’t move anymore and his face is nothing more than a bloody pulp, entirely unrecognizable. Only then does he grunt in pain and rolls off his opponent, lying on the forest floor, breathing labored and hard.

*******

You make camp that night as far away from that spot as you could travel before the light faded. Mr. Morgan gets a fire going while you sit on a log, trying to hide your trembling hands in your lap. You haven’t cried yet but you know it’s coming. He hasn’t said anything yet, and you’re not sure he will.

In the flickering light of the fire, you can see the cuts and bruises in his face, the sleeve of his shirt drenched in blood. And when you close your eyes, you can see the five dead men, their broken bodies left in the dirt for scavengers to feed on. He did that, all on his own.

You force yourself to stand up and walk over to him. He’s not the man who calmed you down after a mountain lion attack anymore; you’ve seen him beat a man to death today with his bare hands. No, he’s someone new now, someone you have to get to know first. And when you crouch down next to him, he looks at you with dark eyes like he’s never looked at you before and you feel all the air being pressed out of you.

“Let me take a look at your arm,” you say, pulling it toward you by his hand. The dried blood on his knuckles is rough against your skin.

He doesn’t protest, just watches as you carefully roll up his sleeve to expose a deep cut, undoubtedly left by the knife. It must have happened so fast you missed it. Even though it’s not bleeding as much as it used to, each pump of Mr. Morgan’ heart pushes some more blood out through the cut.

“You need stitches,” you tell him.

Before you can second-guess what you’re doing or change your mind, you’re next to your saddlebag, looking for the sewing kit your bother gave you. Only you’ve never used it for something like this before. You don’t even know if it’ll work, only ever having read about it in books, but it’s better than doing nothing. You also grab the bottle of whiskey from Mr. Morgan’s bag.

“Drink this,” you order, handing it to him once you’re next to him again.

He takes one big swallow, then another one, his throat working to get the liquid down. You pretend not to notice. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand while you stare at the cut with much more focus than necessary. Taking back the bottle, you pour some of its content on the cut, drawing a low groan from Mr. Morgan that heats up your cheeks.

Your hands are shaking as you try to thread the needle. “Have you ever done this before?” Mr. Morgan asks, his face stoic as if he’s ready to accept his fate no matter the answer you give him.

“Technically, no,” you answer, finally pushing the thread through the eye.

“Huh,” he grunts.

“But I’m very good at mending stockings.” You offer him a feeble smile and he nods. “This might hurt a little bit,” you warn before pushing the needle through his skin. Holding his arm in place with your other hand, you can feel his muscles flex at the intrusion, and a short burst of breath tickles the top of your head. He doesn’t complain.

“Have you ever been stitched up before?” you ask him to distract him.

“No,” he replies through gritted teeth.

“Oh, good. Then you have to believe me when I tell you I’m doing a very good job.” What’s wrong with you?

He grunts again, but maybe, possibly that sound could be hiding a laugh.

“Still, when we arrive at our destination, you should have a doctor look at this,” you instruct.

“Eager to hear from a professional how good of a job you did?”

Your cheeks ignite and you drop the needle. “Shit.” He is laughing now, a low chuckle, as you try to locate a glint in the flickering light from the campfire. Luckily, you don’t have to look far – the needle fell straight down and is lying between Mr. Morgan’s boots. You wipe strands of hair from your face, then wipe the needle clean on your dress before getting back to work.

“No,” you answer his question, forcing your voice to sound steady. “Because I have no idea how to prevent an infection. Or if I’m even doing this correctly.”

Mr. Morgan leans down, his big hand closing around the bottle you discarded earlier, and he unscrews the cap with his thumb and forefinger. “Looks to me like you’re doin’ fine.” A big swig, then another one.

You glance up at him just to see his face looking unusually pale. “Does it hurt a lot?” you ask carefully.

“I’ve had worse,” he answers, but flinches when one of your stitches comes too close to the wound.

You blink fast a couple of times, trying to shake the image of him on top of that man, punching and punching until no trace of life was left. The memory of the sheer brutality makes your hands feel clammy. No, this wasn’t his first time getting hurt, just like it wasn’t his first time killing someone. And now the same hands rest peacefully in his lap, cut and bruised, yes, but a far cry from the deadly weapons you saw today.

“Thank you for what you did today,” finishing up with two final stitches, then quickly add, “There,” and pet his arm before he can acknowledge your words of gratitude.

He lifts his hand from his leg and flexes his fingers. “Thanks for this,” he replies, examining the stitches.

Your gaze lands on his knuckles that are covered in blood, his own and that of the men he killed. “Do you want me to take a look at your hands?” you ask, your throat tight all of a sudden.

“I’m used to that.” He stretches out one of his legs so it rests next to you, close enough that you feel the ghost of a presence next to your hip.

“I’ve never met a man who was used to so much violence.” Your eyes are still on his hands, bruised darkly.

“It was either them or us.” He shrugs.

Us. “I was sure they had killed you when I heard that first gunshot,” you tell him, lowering your gaze to your own hands that have some dirt on them, some streaks of Mr. Morgan’s blood, but that look so clean compared to his.

“And break the contract with your father?”

You laugh. “A father who selected this route knowing full well about the dangers we would face?” The silence that follows your question is filled only by the crackle of the campfire and by the sounds of creatures moving through the woods. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you,” you finally say.

“This ain’t the first time I had to save someone,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“And how did those other people repay you?” you ask, eager for his answer. Being indebted to him puts you on edge.

“Money,” is his short reply.

“I don’t have any,” you say, feeling a tug at your heartstrings. But maybe that doesn’t matter; maybe when you arrive, you could talk to your fiancé. He’ll want to reward the man who defended your honor and saved you from a horrible fate. Still, you wish there was something you could be doing for him right now. “There’s also other ways,” you say, very slowly.

“Hm,” he makes, a sound that has started to fill you with a certain warmth for reasons you can’t quite explain. Then he shifts, moves his legs a little further apart. And you’re there right between them, looking up into his face that betrays nothing except for the smallest glint in his eyes.

You’ve never even kissed a man, but you’re not stupid. You know what certain gestures and movements mean. You’ve watched your father’s hands when a woman walked past them, you’ve attended dances where everyone around you was getting drunk … growing up on a farm, you’ve seen things. But you also know that those things are wrong and they should only be happening between husband and wife behind closed doors, no matter what everyone else is doing.

It's getting harder to breathe, and you feel a tug low in your stomach, almost like an ache. You’ve never felt anything like this before and you can’t quite place it, but the way he looks at you, mouth slightly opened, his eyes deep and dark, only fuels that sensation. And when you think back to this afternoon, it becomes so strong it makes you shift on your knees.

“You’re a pretty little thing.”

It’s the second time today someone has said that about you. Whereas the first time made your skin crawl, the second time makes your cheeks heat up and your breath get stuck in your throat. You notice that Mr. Morgan unbuckles his belt, eyes locked to yours, and you make sure your gaze stays on his face. It’s only when he groans and his eyelids flutter shut that you look down and see he has his hand wrapped around himself, moving it up and down his length with sure strokes. Something in you is released at that sight.

“Here, let me,” you offer, shuffling closer on your knees until you’re trapped between his legs.

Before you can think better of it, you wrap your fingers around the base of his cock. It’s warmer than you expected, feels heavier than you thought when you move your hand up in the same move you saw him use. He groans again, louder this time, and removes his hand, resting it on your arm. You tremble.

Back home, you were taught that what a wife does in the bedroom is fulfilling the duty to her husband. It sounded neither pleasant nor enjoyable, and so far, you’ve managed to push the thoughts of what is awaiting you at your destination from your mind. But your mother couldn’t have meant this, because this doesn’t feel like duty at all. You stroke the tip of his cock with your thumb, he tightens the grip on your arm in return, and you feel a surge of pride well up. No, your mother couldn’t have been talking about this.

Eager to try more, you twist your wrist on the downstroke, then lower your head and kiss the tip of his cock. He growls this time, and his hand lands on the back of your head, pushing you down. You have no choice but to open your mouth further and take him in. The weight of him presses down against your tongue, the tip of him brushing the back of your throat makes you gag as tears shoot to your eyes. He grips your hair, pulls you off, then pushes you back down again, and you got it. It’s not so different from the hand.

Steadying him at the base with a tight grip, you pull off him again, but let your tongue run along the underside, the sharp taste of him filling every corner of your mouth. It will take some getting used to, but you’re determined to get this right, and from the way his hand trembles at the back of your head, you have a feeling you might be.

You close your eyes, focusing on taking him as deeply inside as possible because he seems to enjoy that. Sometimes, when you think there isn’t any room left, he pushes you onto his cock that little bit further and then groans contently, a sound that tightens parts of your body you didn’t know could tighten. You run your tongue over the tip of him, hum around him when your mouth is full of him, just to find out what kind of sounds you can draw from him. If this is what it’s like, you can’t imagine why anyone would call this a duty.

Mr. Morgan stiffens and pushes his hips upward so you take even more of him into your mouth. This time you can’t help the gagging sound pushing past him. But instead of forcing you to take more, he grips a handful of your hair and pulls you off. Your mouth feels strangely empty for a moment, even though his taste lingers, and you blink in confusion. Was that it?

You lick your lips and look up at him expectantly, waiting for him to say something. But he’s quiet, only placing his forefinger under your chin to tilt your head back a little more. For some reason, that gesture leaves you breathless. And you know why a second later when his lips lock onto yours and your breaths mingle, and you suddenly understand why people would kill for this. Why he killed for you.

You can’t help the moan that comes out of your mouth, don’t even realize at first that the sound is coming from you. His hand glides to the back of your head to grip you and hold you in place, and you push yourself toward him, one hand on his arm, the other on his thigh. He licks into your mouth and you try to mirror him, feeling a strange sense of pride when he opens up for you.

He pulls away, holding you in place by the hair at the nape of your neck. “Did you like havin’ me in your mouth?” he asks and his voice is so low you barely recognize it.

“Yes, Mr. Morgan,” you answer, and you also almost don’t recognize your own.

“Oh, you’re somethin’,” he says with a wicked smile, then stands and pulls you with him.

Your legs are trembling and your knees threaten to give way when he kisses you again, pressing his entire body to yours. Just when you think you could spend eternity like this, he closes his arms around your backside and lifts you up, so you don’t have any chance but to sling your legs around his middle. You squeal against his lips, but he just carries you past the campfire toward your bedroll. Beneath your palms, you can feel the muscles in his shoulders and arms flex and tighten with each step. Something in your stomach flutters as you remember he's strong enough to beat a man to death.

Before you know what you’re doing, you’re kissing his jaw and neck, biting down on a tendon that’s jutting out with the effort of keeping you in his arms. When he rumbles deep in his chest, you flick out your tongue to lick across the spot in apology, but he drops you to your feet. You both stand there for a second, looking at each other with heaving chests. His hands come up to grip the neckline of your dress, and he pulls, a tearing sound echoing through the trees. Your torn dress crumbles to the ground around you, exposing your undergarments, and even though your first instinct is to cover up you don’t because he pulls his shirt over his head to expose his naked chest beneath, and that sight is enough to distract you from any embarrassment you might be feeling.

His pants are next, and then he stands before you stark naked. You try to touch his stomach with a trembling hand, but he grabs your wrist and pushes you down to the ground. With precise movements, he pulls off your drawers, taking your shoes with them, then tears open your corset to expose your breasts. Your breath hitches when he cups one in his calloused hand and squeezes, making pleasure spike through your body.

You kiss him again, lean into his touch, and then you discover you can make him tighten his hold on you by licking over his bottom lip. You can make him press his hard length against you by moaning in pleasure. It feels so, so good to have this effect on him, to be able to do that to him without words. Never, in a million years, would you have expected that giving yourself to a man would feel like this, would make heat blossom at the base of your spine, would make you ache between your legs. You shove your fingers into his hair, deepening the kiss, and he sighs against your lips, a sound that makes your knees weak. How can all of this make you feel so good yet fill you with a hunger you don’t know how to satiate?

You run your nails over his scalp, testing to see what other sounds you can elicit from him, when he suddenly shifts both your bodies, pushing you to the ground while caging you in with his body. Your heart hammers in your chest so hard it’s almost painful, but even when your back is uncomfortably pressed against your thin bedroll, you still crane your neck to keep kissing him. God, why can’t you get enough of him?

With a sharp slap against your knee that sends another spike of pleasure through your body, he pushes your legs apart, then draws back to look at you. His lips are red and swollen, and both shadow and light are dancing across his face in quick succession. You reach up to touch his cheek, but he catches your wrist and pins it down next to your head with so much strength it steals the breath from your lungs.

“You’re the prettiest little lady I’ve ever seen,” he mumbles.

You feel your face heat up, but he doesn’t notice how flustered you are. With his free hand, he grabs himself, then lines himself up between your legs. You watch, eyes wide, breathing so fast your head is starting to swim. What comes next is a pressure that is not painful but not quite pleasurable either. And the more it pushes, the more it hurts.

“Stop,” you say, your voice not more than a whisper.

Either he doesn’t hear you or he’s ignoring you, but he continues to push up into you, and now it’s so painful you’ve lost all sense of pleasure entirely.

“Stop,” you try again, bracing your hands against his shoulders, trying to push him off you. He’s too strong for you. “Arthur, stop!” you bellow.

And he hears you. He immediately withdraws, and you scramble to sit up, pulling away from him as best as possible on the small bedroll.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, and the concern in his voice makes you look at him.

“Yes,” you answer, hugging your knees to your chest. You wish you weren’t so naked.

“Have you ever …?” He doesn’t need to finish the question for you to know what he means.

You shake your head.

A deep, red flush creeps up his chest and neck. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t –”

“It’s alright,” you interrupt him, his apology embarrassing rather than harming you. “You didn’t know.”

“The way you were kissin’ me …” He trails off again.

Your ears prick up at the compliment. “It all felt … good,” you stutter. “More than good. It’s just …”

“I can … we can slow down,” he offers. “If you still want …”

You look at him, kneeling before you, his skin glowing orange in the light from the fire. His dick is slowly softening between his legs, goosebumps are covering his arms, but he is showing you all of himself without shame. That bold display of his body makes your blood heat up again, but you hesitate. Touching his naked skin is one thing, giving yourself to him entirely is something you’ve been warned of your entire life. And yet … now that you’ve pushed through the initial shock, you slowly realize your body is demanding to feel him again.

You nod. “Yes. I still … I want you.��

Your cheeks are fever-hot, but the way his eyes light up is worth the embarrassment you feel. Arthur moves toward you, loosening the hold you have on yourself, and you relax, dropping your knees, letting him come even closer. He smirks, his eyes darting to your lips and then back up again before he leans in for a searing kiss, and it feels like the last few minutes didn’t happen at all. Without breaking the kiss, he reaches for your wrist, then slowly guides your hand between your own legs, while you tremble in anticipation. He doesn’t touch you, but when he presses your own fingers against all that heat and wetness, you moan deeply.

Arthur breaks the kiss first. “I want you to play with yourself,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear.

“I don’t …,” you start, suddenly unsure.

“Yeah, I know.” He kisses your neck. “You’re gonna figure it out though.”

You take a deep breath and nod, and when he captures your lips for another kiss, you move your fingers over yourself in a motion that makes pleasure shoot through your entire body. A shaky pant escapes you and lands on his mouth, turning his lips into a smirk even while he’s kissing you.

“There you go,” he whispers.

You find a rhythm and pace that makes you feel like you’re about to explode but that doesn’t light the final fuse, and he continues to kiss you for a while before drawing back to watch the hand between your thighs. Any shame you could have felt is replaced by pure lust when you see the arousal in his eyes; you shift to open your legs further, and he raises his eyes in surprise. You shift under his searing gaze and moan when you notice his hand closing around the base of his cock.

You’ve never felt like you’re feeling right now, completely in control but also like you’re surrendering yourself to him. It’s so addictive it makes you wonder how people don’t want to feel like this all the time. “It feels so good,” you groan, struggling to get the words out because your teeth are clenched.

“You’re so pretty,” is Arthur’s answer as he moves his hand up and down his length.

You can’t help but believe him. “I love you strong you are,” you return the compliment, and before you can think better of it, you raise your free hand and cup your breast, squeezing your nipple.

His eyes lock onto your chest. “Fuck.” Pleasure shoots through you from the tip of your toes to the top of your head. “You’re such a good girl,” he adds, and it makes your heart flutter so painfully you feel like it’s about to fly out of your chest.

“Say that again,” you demand, not recognizing yourself at all.

Arthur shifts closer until he’s right between your legs, fisting himself eagerly. You can smell the sweat and arousal on him, a scent so overpowering you wish you could bury your nose in his skin and inhale it forever. “My pretty, brave girl,” he says, and when you lower your gaze, too overwhelmed by what his words make you feel, he grips your chin and lifts your head. “Oh no, you’re gonna look at me.” You blink once but don’t lower your head again. “Yeah, that’s it.” He smirks. “Look at you … so eager to please me. You should see yourself right now … goddamn prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

You do lower your gaze then because it feels like too much. Your eyes land on his cock, on the tip that’s glistening wetly, and you lick your lips, remembering the feeling of him in your mouth.

“You want me inside of you, don’t you?” Arthur asks, and you nod. His rough, calloused hand closes around your throat and you can’t help it – you move your own hand faster, a crescendo building in the pit of your stomach. “Use your words, pretty girl. I know you can.”

You swallow hard, knowing he can feel your throat move against his grip. “Yes, I want you inside of me.” Your face doesn’t heat up this time as you realize you’re not only saying that to please him. It’s exactly what you want.

He rewards you with a deep kiss, then mumbles against your lips. “Are you ready?”

You hesitate. “I’m not …”

But Arthur doesn’t let you finish. “Let’s find out together.” He leans back. “Finger yourself.” The way his eyes darken when he says it isn’t lost on you.

You shift and move your hand lower, his eyes fixed to your movements. He has stopped moving, his hand grabbing his cock, holding it between his legs. You feel yourself flutter against your fingers in anticipation at the same time as he licks his lips. And then you push the tip of your finger inside of you, past the initial resistance, deeper and deeper until you can’t go any further.

“Breathe,” he instructs and you exhale sharply. “Did that hurt?”

You shake your head before remembering he likes to hear your voice. “No.”

“How does it feel?” he wants to know.

Carefully, you pull your finger out until only the tip remains inside of you, then you push it back in. “Good,” you manage. “Really good.”

“You’re sweet when you can barely talk,” he says with a smirk and the muscles inside you clamp down on your finger. You moan and close your eyes, unable to keep them open. “You like that, don’t you?” You hear him shift closer. “You like hearing my voice. Bet you’d like me to talk you through it, too.”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you feel something building inside you. It’s like a wave that will drown everything out. You lean back further and further until your back connects to the ground, until you can raise your hips to meet your finger, trying to get it as deep inside you as possible.

Then his hand is covering yours and he pushes you to the ground, stilling you. When you open your eyes, you’re met with his, dark with lust, and you’re rewarded with the sight of his chest, flushed so deeply red it looks almost purple. His cock is leaking onto his fingers. “Not yet, sweet girl,” he says in a voice that sounds familiar to the one he uses to calm down his horse. “You’re doing so well, but wait until …”

Arthur removes his hand from yours, but then you feel the tip of his finger right where yours is disappearing inside yourself. You steel yourself for the pain you’re about to feel, but when his finger joins yours, stretching you open, all you feel is pleasure so intense it makes it hard for you to stay conscious.

“Fuck,” you groan, a short outburst, almost like a bark.

“You can say that again.” Arthur’s voice is so husky it’s almost impossible to understand. He cups your hand with his, and then moves the both of you in tandem, pulling back out and pushing back in. You tentatively meet his thrusts by rolling your hips and he growls. “Look at you, spread open just for me.”

You don’t know why his words make you feel like they do, but the muscles between your legs are working hard to keep both your fingers buried as deeply as possible. That earns you a smirk from him and you smile back in return.

“I think you’re ready.” He grips your hand tightly and pulls the both of you out, making you sob. To calm you, he cups your cheek and presses a soft kiss to your lips. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna fill you right back up again.” All you can do is nod.

He positions himself above you, stroking himself a few times, then lining himself up. It’s easier for you to relax this time because you know what to expect, but when he breaches that resisting wall of muscles, you still feel a burn and hiss.

“Shhhh,” he makes and kisses your forehead. “You’re doing so good.”

And then he’s inside of you, stretching you open as much as you can take. His eyes flutter shut and he groans, shifting to adjust himself. “You feel perfect.”

“You’re … you’re big,” you manage, drawing a chuckle from him.

He shifts again, then pulls back out before slamming back into you, making you see stars. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he apologizes immediately.

“No,” you press out through gritted teeth. “Do that again.”

He does, and you grip his arm, burying your nails in his muscle, slinging your other arm around his back. There’s a strange taste in your mouth and you only slowly realize it’s blood from biting down on your bottom lip. He kisses you, licks over the wound, pulls a sharp moan from you. And then he slams into you so hard you scream, clawing at his skin, leaving bloody streaks down his arm and back. The pain only seems to spur him on and when you pant, “Harder,” he doesn’t hesitate.

You clench around his cock in return and he whispers, “I like you like this.” You feel yourself clench again and he groans. “You’re perfect,” he repeats. You kiss his neck, then bite it, until he pushes you back down. “I bet you’ve never had an orgasm before, have you?” You shake your head and he mimics that motion, tapping your bottom lip with his thumb. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“No,” you manage to say, your voice hoarse.

He rocks into you, not as hard and fast as before, but it makes you pant helplessly nonetheless. “Yeah, I thought so,” he mumbles more to himself than to you.

“Please,” you whisper.

He smirks down at you, then shifts his knees ever so slightly to change the angle. Suddenly, he’s brushing against something deep inside of you that makes a sob erupt from deep in your chest.

“Do you even know what you’re asking for?” he teases, but there is a strain in his voice now, as if he’s struggling to hold onto something.

“Please,” you repeat louder, unable to fully grasp the meaning of his question.

Arthur’s thumb is back on your lip and then he pushes it inside your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the tip eagerly, then suck on it, grazing your teeth over his skin. His breathing turns ragged, and the warmth of pride erupts in your chest. With a wet sound, he pulls his thumb out from between your lips and pushes his hand between your bodies until it comes to rest on that small spot you were toying with earlier. You howl and twitch and your whole body erupts. You spill over, you lose sense of where and who you are, you’re shaken by forces beyond your control. All the while, Arthur pounds into you, strokes you inside and out, and you think you hear him say, “That’s it, just let go. You’re so fucking beautiful – just let go.”

As soon as you feel like you can breathe again, he pulls out of you, leaving you aching and empty and cold. Through hooded eyes, you watch as he moves his hand up and down his cock fast until he spills all over his hand and the edge of your bedroll, gaze not directed downwards, but staring at you with insatiable hunger in his eyes. And you return that gaze just as hungrily, wondering what it would feel like to taste his release on your tongue.

Arthur stands unsteadily and retrieves his coat from the other side of the campfire. You feel the cold of the night now and hug your knees to your chest, still trying to make sense of the world. “Now, no more of that,” he says when he gets back, draping his coat over you, the weight of it making your limbs grow soft. He lies down next to you, pressing his front to your back, one arm possessively slung over your chest, the other shoved under your head for you to use as a pillow.

*******

The morning sun is warm on your face as you ride through a slowly thinning forest. The plains and your destination cannot be far from here. Your thoughts are though; they’re still somewhere behind you, stuck at a campfire, busy chasing the feeling of the man next to you between your legs.

When you reach a fork in the path, you stop your horse and look off to your right, back into the forest and the mountains. “What’s back there?” you ask.

Arthur stops his horse next to yours and looks down the path. “Never been over that way,” he answers.

“Do you want to find out?” Your voice is firm, but you don’t look at Arthur.

He’s quiet at first. “Your father –”

“– already paid you,” you finish the sentence.

Arthur nods. “Alright,” he says, then looks back at the path you just put behind you, then off to your right again. “Let’s find out what’s over there.”

***

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #embers

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flying-fangirls · 4 months ago

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As a music, religion, and literature nerd, the Dies Irae has been one of my favorite go-to pieces of trivia for a long time, which means that this line:

Has been driving me batshit BONKERS since part 42! And also as a semi-professional media analysis yapper, I figured I might as well dive into the exact reasons I jumped up and audibly gasped upon first hearing this line and have subsequently lost my mind since then. So!

Here is why I think that the Dies Irae is the perfect analogy for John and Arthur:

Religion

Let's start with the most straightforward meaning: "Dies Irae" is a Latin term, and it translates to the "Day of Wrath." Or otherwise known as the Judgement Day, the foretold second coming in Catholic canon, when Christ will "come again in glory to judge the living and the dead." It's at this Last Judgement where God will wield perfect justice to send the worthy to everlasting peace and the unworthy to everlasting punishment. (everyone say "thank you" to excessive childhood Catholic lessons for burning this into my brain)

There's a kind of irony to the fact that Arthur so vehemently rejects Christianity and religion as a whole, and that John spends much of his arc trying to distance himself from the role/identity of a god, yet both are given this incredibly religious title, effectively restricting them from ever forgetting the presence/influence of religion in their lives.

This title has a couple layers though, because we have to consider why it's the Day of Wrath specifically that represents Arthur and John. Now, I don't think I have to tell you that those two are bursting with anger 80% of the time. But I am going to tell you that those two are not just angry, but moreso "divine fury" incarnate.

The Day of Wrath, the Final Judgment, is the final and eternal judgment of God on all: "For now before the Judge severe / all hidden things must plain appear; / no crime can pass unpunished here." (Dies Irae, Dies Illa). The final Judge, the all-powerful God, can see the objective morality of every single person, and is thus the sole, rightful determiner of fate.

This assumption of their right to perfectly and single-handedly decide others' worthiness shows up over and over, not just John and Arthur's actions, but also in how they describe these judgments.

When Arthur kills the widow on the island, it's not because she was dangerous, but because she was a cultist who "deserved" to be punished.

When John and Arthur need to get rid of Mr. Scratch's stone, John says they should give it to "criminals" who are "deserving of this curse." Even though, just moments before, Arthur refused to give the stone to Oscar because to do so would be to cursing him to a fate of eternal suffering.

And I can't go into every single detail about the entire Larson plotline because this post would double in size, but it obviously needs to be included here. Possibly the strongest tie between this arc and the idea of the Dies Irae is Arthur's conviction through it all. Arthur vows that he is going to kill Larson in divine retribution not because he wants to, but because he has to. He even goes so far as to admit that killing Larson will be a mistake, a cruel and overly-bloodthirsty action that goes against his compassion. But killing Larson isn't a choice to Arthur, it is the unavoidable punishment for Larson's sins and Arthur is simply the enactor of justice. Just like the Final Judgment, there is no sympathy, no hesitancy— the judgment is absolute, divinely ordained, and cannot be stopped no matter how undeniably horrific it is.

If we look at the Catholic Catechism, principle 2302 states that it is sinful to kill out of desire, but that it is "praiseworthy to impose restitution" and use violence to "maintain justic." So even if Arthur has intent to kill, his actions count as divinely sanctioned. He is acting as the hand of God's punishment.

Over the course of Season 3 and 4, Arthur's fiery rage dies down to a more gentle simmer, but his conviction only seems to grow, and John follows suit. Despite previously reprimanding Arthur for his unquestioning wrath, John eventually becomes just as convinced that Larson "deserves" to face a wrathful reckoning. The "fact" that Larson is wholly unforgivable and is fated to receive eternal punishment becomes more indisputable in their minds, and they both stop questioning the morality of their intentions, entirely convinced of their judgment.

Throughout the story, Arthur and John insist upon the importance of kindness, compassion, and forgiveness, and say that these are the values that guide their every action. Yet, time and time again, they approach certain people with nothing but wrath and resentment. It's a sharp contrast to the benevolent figures they make themselves out to be, and Arthur and John are often blind to the contradiction because, in their eyes, they are still following those values in every action. And in the moments when they do recognize their horrific words or actions, they still cannot let their judgment go, convinced that it is their "duty" either way.

In Part 35, Arthur says "Just because you can't make the hard decision, doesn't mean it's wrong." This is exactly how John and Arthur view themselves. They know that some of their actions are harsh and violent and painful, but they are don't view that violence as wrong, because they are enacting that violence in justice. They move through life with carefully-selected destruction, culling the world of those they view as unforgivable sinners, and punishing them with divine righteousness. Arthur and John carry righteous fury in their every step, bringing the Day of Wrath down upon the world around them.

Now, there's already a ton of meaning just in this religious allusion alone. However, there's another application of the Dies Irae in modern culture, which brings us to the second side of this title:

Music

Back in the 13th century (sounds like a familiar setting...), friar Thomas of Celano wrote a poem for and about the Dies Irae. The poem was recited at Requiem Mass (church services to honor the dead), and it ended up being set to a Gregorian chant tune.

Over time, this melody has been used by a variety of composers, but the one we're focused on is Hector Berlioz. In 1837, Berlioz used the Dies Irae melody as part of his narrative symphony, Grand Messe de morts, in order to communicate that the main character had died. Then a lot of other composers saw that and said "Hey that's a cool idea!", and started also using this melody to represent death in their music. Nowadays, it's a fairly staple part of modern film and musical storytelling. If you've listened to literally any major soundtrack, then there's a good chance you've heard this motif (or a variation of it) used before. It's often subtle, sometimes loud and obvious, but no matter what, it reveals the inevitable presence of death. (essentially, the Dies Irae=death)

Now, obviously there's something tragically ironic about Arthur being likened to a musical motif when he tries so hard to distance himself from it, and there's something tragically ironic about John being associated with such a dark piece of music when he shows so much fascination and joy toward the art. Again, though, we've got some layers here. Yorick doesn't just compare Arthur and John to the Dies Irae, he literally defines them as the Dies Irae, a full embodiment of it.

Even before the story started, Arthur lost both of his parents, his friend and wife, his daughter, and his best friend.

John, when he was part of the King in Yellow, knew only how to harm and attack. In the Dark World, he falls back on this fearful lashing out with violence, harming even more people.

And throughout the story, John and Arthur seem to bring devastation to everyone else around them: Lilly the buopoth, Oscar, Noel, Collins, Daniel, Larson and Yellow.

The arrival of Dies Irae musical motif in a film always indicates that death is approaching or that is has already struck— a host carrying its blight to spread onto others. Just like the musical motif, the arrival of Arthur and John foretells the near-arrival of death. They play a duet together— John and Arthur, and death— always singing and dancing around and with each other.

These two never succumb to death, always finding a way to slip through its fingers and survive every situation. But they cannot escape death's presence because they are death's partner— singing the melody to death's subtle harmony. They cannot escape death because they are its host— destined to carry and spread devastation to death's victims. From the moment you meet John and Arthur, you know that death is inevitably approaching just a step behind, waiting to strike you down.

Whether it's the religious or musical side, we can see that John and Arthur are the literal embodiment of these allusions. They carry these powers and ideas in their every action and word, in their every step, in their very breath and blood.

Arthur and John. The hands of God's justice. The enactors of divine fury.

Arthur and John. The hosts of blight and destruction. The partner of death's song.

The man himself. The voice inside his head.

The Day of Wrath. The Dies Irae.

#this is late. like. really late #and canon is clearly lining up for an actual plot point related to this title #but ignore that!#and just think about the themes guys. the allusions. the symbolismmmm #(humor me here)#also i am. so sorry. for basically posting an entire informal essay #that appeals specifically to just me. and maybe two other people in the whole world #but the worms in my brain demanded that i yap about this #malevolent #malevolent podcast #malevolent analysis #malevolent meta #dies irae #arthur lester #john doe #cherrys rambles

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grymghoul · 9 months ago

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It didn't take long for you to find out that teasing ARTHUR MORGAN was fun. Batting your lashes at him is one thing.. you take it to a whole other level. The moment there's no eyes on you two, your palm is pressed to the front of his pants. You can trace the outline of his cock and you won't stop until you can feel every vein and ridge. Until his head is neatly outlined against the inside of his right thigh. Then you scoot off to do something else, smiling in self satisfaction. Sometimes, when he's journaling or otherwise distracted, you'll sneak between his thighs. Not really sneak, he's all too aware of your presence and the almost nuisance like quality you contain. Hell, his hand even rests on the crown of your head, a subconscious tic. However, it always jolts him when he feels your hot mouth on him from outside his pants. He'll shift his hips, as if asking nicely for you to not tease him this time. It's like you're trying to suck on him from outside of his jeans. He can be a proud man, but he's not too proud to admit he's almost cum from that alone. You can be absolutely torturous to the poor man. He'll bite his bottom lip, try to go back to journaling or reading, he'll tug at your hair. None of it deters you. Especially the hair tugging, seeing him squirm and be too much of a gentleman to tell you to stop unless you plan to choke on his cock. Some of the things he can be teased with are so simple, it's nearly laughable. When you tug him by his belt, the bandana around his neck, even tugging on a singular button of his shirt gets him going. Just enough for his dick to twitch. The worst part? You always choose times where he can't just have you. He can't just pull you into bed and fuck the teasing right out of your silly brain. He can't just shove you face first into the mattress and egg you on for as long as he wants, ignoring your whimpers and sobs. Partially because he's not entirely a degenerate, the other part is that canvas tents aren't really sound proof. He makes a whole elaborate show of getting you back. A nice (as nice as it can get) dinner, something fun like dancing, and a room for the night. Complete with a bath. He's sure to space it out between your teases and his nights out with you that you remain unsuspecting. But the second he's got you well fed and pampered and entertained (so you can't cause him anymore grief), he's on you. Deep kisses and wandering hands, slowly your clothes fall off. Before you realize it, he's got you crying out into your pillow, make up all ruined (he insisted you dress nice for this outing, he really just wanted your face to stain even more hotel pillows). He thought he was so clever. That you'd never catch on. That you'd always be in the dark. He never stopped to wonder why you insisted on teasing him so much.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan imagines #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan smut #c: arthur morgan

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live-laugh-lenney · 4 months ago

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ArthurTV angst with smut at the end? 😏 or fluff 🫶

i'm just... waffling in these, at the moment.

"don't do this."

his hand was flat against the frame of her front door as soon as she pulled it open, his body being the only obstruction in her leaving her flat and stepping foot in the corridor of her flat complex. and it took yn by complete surprise... because arthur frederick was the last person she ever expected to be stood at her front door that evening.

"don't do what? arthur, you can't just turn up on my doorstep and-"

"don't go on this date."

"who told you i was going on a date? the only person i told was-" she cuts her sentence short and sighs heavily at the sudden realisation that dawned upon her at who would have shared the information with and she brought her hands up to cover her face in annoyance, "chris."

"he didn't want to tell me. i made him tell me," arthur explains, "but that's not the point."

"why are you here?"

"you know why i'm here, yn," he says, his eyes barely leaving her face, "i'm can't let you do this."

"you're the one who turned me down, arthur. you can't expect me to wait around for you, for my whole life, until you felt ready enough to have a girlfriend," she pushes his arm in an attempt to let her leave her home except he barely budged, "arthur, seriously."

"i realised how much of a mistake i made by letting you walk away that night," he gulps back the thick lump that was buried low in his throat and his eyes could barely drop from how deeply they were looking into hers, "since you told me how you felt, i haven't been able to ignore this voice in the back of my head telling me that i was an idiot for even second-guessing my own feelings i had for you."

the only image he had in his mind, almost burned into his brain, was how her face looked when he got up after she'd confessed how she felt towards him. the way her eyes glossed over at how he couldn't - or wouldn't - tell her the truth of his own feelings playing havoc in his mind. the way her bottom lip trembled behind the rim of the coffee cup in her hand and how she chewed on the lid in an attempt to keep herself from crying at his - unwanted - rejection. the way she couldn't even say a goodbye as he got up to walk away because she didn't trust her own voice to say anything.

"no, i'm not having this conversation now."

"yn-"

"no," she held up a finger to stop him before he started his sentence, "i've moved on, arthur. you rejected me, you caused me so much pain that day, so no." she shook her head and felt the courage course her veins, strong enough to have her look at him. "i'm going on this date and i'm going to enjoy my night with benjamin and when i re-tell the events to chris, when he asks, i hope he tells you everything i say because you deserve to know what you missed out on having."

all arthur could do was drop his arm from the frame of her door and step back, allowing her to close her door and lock it behind her, watching as she shoved her keys into her bag and let it hang down her shoulder.

"go home, arthur."

she turns on her heels, glittering under the harsh light of the corridor lights in the ceiling panels, and her feet take her in gentle strides to the elevator at the end of the hallway.

"one day, we'll work things out and we'll be friends again but right now," she wants to come to a halt and turn around on the spot but she can't bring herself to look at him and the doors to the lift were getting closer and closer, "right now, we need our space. i need you to go and find someone and-"

she feels a hand wrap around her upper arm and she feels a tug on her elbow, twirling her around in a hastily fashion, and she almost stumbled over her feet in the swift motion that had her back facing her desired destination. and before she could comprehend what was happening, her mind still boggling over how she'd been so quickly turned, she felt lips press against her own in a kiss that held so much passion from the moment their lips connected.

soft.

pillowy.

yet with an intense hold that had her wanting more in the moment, her arms wrapping around his neck out of pure instinct and her fingers dug deep into the hairs at the nape of his neck, tugging and twirling into the strands in an attempt to have him kiss her with as much passion as possible. his stubble rough against her soft skin but, in that moment, she didn't care.

she didn't care where they were.

she didn't care who could have been watching.

"be mine," he whispers against her lips before he pulled away from her, "please don't go on this date tonight, yn. i can't let you go. not like this and not this easy."

she was still in a daze.

"say something, please."

the silence was killing him, and he was desperate to know what was going on in her mind, her lips still moist from his own and her eyes searching his features in an attempt to give her a moment to find an answer.

"it was always you, arthur. it will always be you." x

#arthurtv #arthurtv fics #arthurtv imagines #arthurtv headcannons #arthurtv blurbs #arthur frederick #arthur frederick imagines #arthur frederick headcannons #arthur frederick fics #arthur frederick blurbs

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prettyboykatsuki · 11 months ago

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✮ tags ; fem reader, historical fiction (time period typical commentary about gender), bantering / romantic tension, smoking cigarettes, indirect kiss, enemies to lovers if you squint, a vague age gap hejkfdjks

✮ a/n ; i cant believe myself but i needed to get it out of my fucking brain.

"Aren't very good at being stealthy, are you Mr. Marston?"

His eyes linger on your frame longer than he'd like them too. You're still in your night clothes, and dawn has yet to break. Up earlier than he's used to seeing you. Up brushing his horse, of all things. Old Boy's nothing but tender under your care.

The faint mist of morning touches his skin, turns him cold. You oughta be even colder like that, but it doesn't show on your face.

He scoffs a little, hands tucked into his pockets. "Wasn't trying to be. Nobody's up this early so I though we had some unwanted company."

"I guess I still count for that, huh?"

“Oh, shut up would you?”

You giggle back to him in reply. It’s rare to hear. Normally when you're laughing, it's a lot coarser. Always so rowdy. He doesn't mind how you sound now. He sits on a log nearby, watching you as you pat the horse gently. Brushing it's mane and whispering words quiet enough that he can't hear over them over the crackle of the freshly lit campfire.

He can't see your face in the dark either, not well. But you're smiling.

"He likes you more than he likes me," He mumbles.

"A woman's touch or somethin' like that," You reply back. John laughs sardonically.

"A woman? Hardly. Got plenty of other options if that's what he needs."

You shoot him an unimpressed look, brows furrowed. Most women would be pissed at him for saying so. John wouldn't say it to anyone but you, he figures. You hardly look mad though, if a little displeased.

You rifle through the horses saddle (with all of John's things, not even bothering to ask him permission) until you find some sugar cubes. The horse makes a pleasant noise as you coo at him, opening your hand up to feed him.

"But he's eating out of my hand all docile anyway," You give John a furtive glance, smile pulling at the corners of your lips "Reminds of somebody,"

Yeah. Right. He bets it does.

For how much you and John argue and for how much you get on each others nerves, he can admit to himself that he spends more time looking at you then looking away. He can't understand it himself. Makes him feel guilty. He ain't much of a good man. He ain't much of anything. A decent marksman, a fine swindler. Not much else.

The flame paints your face orange-yellow in the light. Not enough for you. Not in anyway. But he can't keep his eyes from memorizing you . Always noticing the way you look back at him. All tender. You can be a lot of things when you want to be, but he doesn't often catch it.

It's hard to ignore when he does. "Don't you have things to do, Mr. Marston? Your turn to stand watch today, isn't it?"

He wants a little longer with you. He frowns at you. "Mr. Marston? You call everyone their name but me."

"Does it bother you?"

Course it does. That's what he wants to say. He looks around for his satchel and pulls a cigarette out from it along with a lighter. The flame sparks, looking away from you. "Just wondering why that is."

"Well, lets see," You stop tending to Old Boy after a few more lonesome pats, instead walking towards him close to the fire. You pour yourself a cup of coffee as you sit on the log adjacent. "Arthur's troubled when I say Mr. Morgan, says it makes him feel old. Mr. Smith is too formal for Charles, and Summers is... Summers. Same with Dutch, and Hosea and Bill. Mm, I guess that leaves Javier - but he's hardly a mister."

"And I am?"

You grin into your cup of coffee, not looking at him. "Course you are, Mr. Marston. What else would you have me call you?"

"My name would do you just fine."

"I like Mr. Marston. It's nice and formal, and well," You do peer up at him at him this time. "Young ladies are supposed to be prim and proper and formal, aren't they? At least from what I know. Shouldn't go around calling a man with a son by just his name now should I?"

Damn it. You're clever. "It's no wonder men lose their betting money to you."

"What are you saying now? Just trying to be mindful. Would you prefer I call you your name, Mr. Marston?"

You're doing it on purpose now. He sighs.

"Call me whatever you want," He says, giving up on it after a while as he takes another drag of his cigarette. You finish your coffee, bemused before empty out the grounds.

After, he watches as you saunter over to him. You bend forward, too close - bare skin inches away from prying eyes.

He's thankful everyone's asleep and not around to witness this.

You bend to him eye level, plucking the cigarette half-smoked from between his fingers and placing it between your lips. Your lips are smooth, shiny and plump and soft.

You hold it between your pointer and middle and take a deep inhale of smoke. The scent of tobacco floods his lungs again as you blow the remaining smoke out into his face, making him cough.

He stares at you wide-eyed and awe struck as your grin widens. A flush creeps up his face as he realizes where your mouths been, watching the end of butt of the cig get dark and stick between your lips.

"Thanks for the cigarette, John," You say, waving him off as you turn back towards your tent. "I'll see you at supper,"

John watches you smoke as you get yourself ready for the day, at the far end of the camp - adjusting something in his jeans. Damn you do something to him.

#rdr2 x reader #john marston x reader #red dead redemption x reader #how on gods green earth do i tag for a man named john #writing tag #i want that guy quite terribly

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frollosversion · 9 months ago

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Hello! This idea has been itching my brain for a while now.

"How much of a Father am I?"

Frollo's slight backstory of raising Quasimodo.

This is a story about that phrase Frollo said to his ward:

"When your heartless mother abandoned you as a child, anyone else would've drowned you. And this is my thanks for taking you in as my son?"

This story will probably have three parts. This is gonna be part 1.

Part 2

Part 3

"What must I do?" Frollo asked the Archdeacon.

It was the first time Frollo spoke softly in fear. He never does it nor does he follow anyone's orders or commands. The only person that could tame his heavy heart is the archdeacon and maybe a tad bit of conscience.

"Care for the child..." Said the Archdeacon. "And raise it as your own."

Frollo's eyes widened at the thought of nursing a child let alone an 'unholy demon' (according to him). He was about to protest but his conscience still devours him alive.

"Excuse me? You what— I am to be saddled with mishapen—" he paused. "very well."

After few negotiations, they settled of letting the baby live in the cathedral's bell tower under Frollo's care. The church had becometh the child's sanctuary.

The Archdeacon was conflicted of Frollo's push and pull attitude the whole time but he was tolerant even after the murder of the baby's mom.

After the arrangement of everything— the room, the crib and other things, The minister tiredly puts the baby down. Just as soon as he did, the baby started wailing.

"Oh what the devil—"

"The baby is hungry, Frollo. Do something about it. I already did my part of staying and helping with all this. It's on you now." The Archdeacon calmly leaves the bell tower.

"Hey! Hey! How do I even—" Frollo ask with a trace of panic. "Father!!! Get back here at once!"

But the Archdeacon already left. He was left alone with the baby.

"STOP.. JUST STOP CRYING!!!" Frollo commanded which led to no avail. "I SAID STOP OR I'LL THROW—" no he can't.

"Fuck..." he mentally cussed.

"Milk..." Frollo immediately thought.

He looked at the baby and looked at his chest, madly thinking about breastfeeding the baby because it was his first instinct.

"Stupid of you to think that i can breastfeed you" He says, blaming the child for being hungry.

He wanted to ignore it but he knows he can't. One, it's noisy, two, it's haunting his conscience, three, he just wants everything to go back the way it was.

The night became complicated but he eventually had a solution of letting the child drink milk from the milk glass bottles they use in the olden days.

After a while, frollo sat down the wooden chair. The child had slept in his arms soundly.

"The fact that I have to to this everyday stresses me." He looked at the child. Despite the baby's deformity, Frollo had find it somehow angelic when it slept. It makes his heart soften towards the boy for a fraction of second.

"Right. I still have to name you. A name shouldn't sound like a name. I don't want to get too... attached."

That night, he decides to think of the child's name. He could've just named him any sweet name a child deserves to have but his heart was still bitter.

He could've named him like Alain, Von, Arthur, Gabriel, Blaise, Karl, or any other names but no...

"Quasimodo..." He speaks. "Yeah. That should do it."

Frollo gave the child a cruel name. A name that means half-formed. Quasimodo. He was downright menace on that one but he wants no attachments with the baby. He's doing it out of conscience.

Frollo wanted to just leave the baby in there and call it quits. But he refuses to. He's not gonna wait for his own soul haunt him if he goes back to the palace of justice and leave the baby here.

"Lord. You've sent me a test. This child is my cross to bear. But I shall prove you i am worthy of overcoming this. I'll raise this... thing. as promised."

Instead, he falls asleep... with the baby in his arms.

His night was fucked up and he just wants it to go back the way it was but he knows it's not gonna happen. This will be his first of many more routines in the future, but that night, he just wants it to pass.

#hunchback of notre dame #thond #the hunchback of notre dame #disney #frollo #claude frollo #judge frollo #frollo quasimodo #quasimodo #quasi #headcannons #fan stories #hond

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thisfanisgonesorry · 1 year ago

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hi if you're still taking requests, I can't get the idea of arthur somehow being in the epilogue, alive and thriving, working on the ranch with john and his family and just being happy

IM IN LOVE WITH YOU!! omg thanks for the req <3 i hope u enjoy it cutiepie, sorry it took me a lil bit

ending cowrote by @megbimbo loml

tags: yall are in the epilogue, making this an xreader since im basically useless if i dont but its light so dw, canon deviation obviously, high honor arthur. very angsty because my little gremlin brain could not just make him healthy but HE IS HAPPY!! MY BOY IS A HAPPY CAMPER!!; i usually write 1st person but i got possessed so heres a 2nd person fic (never doing this again, sorry if its shit), genderneutral but implied fem reader. milking the cows was the most pleasurable part of the epilogue after the absolute shitshow i had to endure that was chapter 6. arthur milks the cows for that exact reason. some medical terms i know that probably werent viable to use back in the day but idc. some cowboy stuff i learnt as a wee lass when i had a horsey. so many tags ill shut up now. (i got sad at the end of the fic because i realised you cant kiss him. that made me sad.) also water pump distance ref because its.. not as close as i thought it was.

♡

You and Abigail tended the house while Arthur and John were outside, doing god knows what, their manly chores. Jack and Uncle had a day trip to Blackwater, running errands and such, getting groceries, the works. Jack needed to get out of the house and Uncle needed to get out of doing work.

“I’ve got this.” Abigail spoke, taking the plate from your hands. A brisk nod and you wandered off outside to check on the boys, mostly worried for Arthurs wellbeing, as you tended to be. As the years dragged on, the remaining gang had been accustomed to not treat Arthur like he was fragile, which often than not, resulted in him being injured or overworked in some capacity or another.

You knew well enough that John would take care of Arthur and not work him to exhaustion, especially in this blazing heat, but nursing him back to health after things went south all that time ago wasn’t an easy job, and when they were building the house, he had a pretty bad flare up.

There was a slight sound of wheezing coming from the distance, your ears perked slightly, rushing down the main steps and looking around. You could vaguely see them over by the water pump in the distance.

Arthur was sitting on the ground, John hovering over him, rubbing his back slowly as Arthur coughed and spluttered. You rushed over to them, evidently worried.

“What happened?”

John looked over to you, softly speaking. “He pushed himself too hard.”

“Yeah.” He spluttered. “I’ll be fine.”

You kneeled beside Arthur, rubbing his back as John pulled away to fill the bucket with water to continue their water run, also so Arthur could take a handful and drink some, hopefully hydrating his throat enough to stop him from tearing his oesophagus.

Water Runs; They were dreaded, the water buckets would get heavy, and in heat like this, you’d need to do the runs multiple times a day to keep the animals hydrated. It got worse if the water troughs were under direct sunlight, the amount depended on the day, the weather and the animals, but the horses needed the extra water this summer, as did the sheep and the cows. All around, it was an awful chore.

Arthur, being the horse lover he is, would be quite adamant in keeping the horses up during the heat, making sure they’re okay. Though, because of the humid air, it was causing his illness to worsen. He slurped up a handful of water, and his coughing let up slightly.

“You need to rest.” You spoke firmly, as John picked up the bucket and walked it over to the remaining troughs, walking over into the sheep pen so he could keep a keen eye on Arthur momentarily.

“I know, I know.” He groaned. “John and I have a lot of things to do.”

“This is John’s ranch, not yours. Sit down for a bit.”

“But the horses—”

“But nothing. You can care for them later this evening.”

Your voice hung in the air sternly and he pouted like a child, he needed to sit down and rest, to be removed from the hot and muggy air. Once the blazing sun begins to set and the air begins to cool, he would be allowed to go back to his duties.

John waddled back over with the bucket, filling it up but lingering before he delivered it to the other animals. “Don’t worry, Arthur. I can do this on my own.”

“I want to help.” He spoke sternly, trying to stand up but weakly clutching his chest as he required the aid of you and John to get to his feet.

“How many other chores have you got today?”

John took the conversation away from Arthur, now more than just on board with the concept of letting him sit down and rest for a while. “Just the water, feeding, and milking the cows.”

“I can milk the cows.” Arthur objected.

You sighed, looking over at him, knowing he would rather keel over than be useless. He was a helper; for as long as he’s been known by any of the people on this ranch, he’s always been willing to help people. His need to work died down drastically since he’d been adopted to live on the ranch, but that didn’t mean the lack of drive didn’t eat away at him.

John raised his hands in a defeated shrug. “Let him milk the cows.”

“Fine, but I’m keeping a close eye on him.”

“That’s probably for the best.” John shrugged, with his shoulders this time, grunting as he picked up the bucket, continuing the water run.

Arthur had a horrendous side eye on him, though he restrained the urge to say something snarky, “I can do this on my own.” He spoke instead, as he began to stride his way to the barn.

“I know.” You responded, following behind him.

He seemed upset at the sudden switch of attitude, even after all this time, he wasn’t used to people treating him like he was sick. For the most part, people didn’t, but, for equal parts, he didn’t often tell people that he was sick, instead playing to be super cautious whenever around anyone new.

He took a seat on the stool beside the cow and you stood behind him, leaning against the pillar.

“I’m fine.” He reassured as he slowly milked the cow, the metal panging sound of the bucket being hit with liquid filled the barns silence.

“I know.” You repeated quietly, not really paying attention to the words leaving your mouth. “Jus’ making sure you’re okay, we’re bein’ careful, ‘s all.”

“I don’t need it.”

“I know you want to act like you’re okay, but you’re not. You’ve had a few close calls. We’re just trying to keep you...” You trailed off, not wanting to say the blunt words that weighed heavy. We’re trying to keep you alive.

He stayed silent as John slowly opened the barn doors, entering almost silently and taking the milk pail as it filled to the top.

“I’ll deal with this.” He said briefly, leaving us quietly to continue our discussion.

Arthur stayed painfully silent as your words lingered heavily in the air, John was quick to disappear into his jobs, and Arthur stayed on the stool, petting the cow softly.

“I get it.” He spoke after a long pause of silence. “I’m sorry, I just...” He rotated his hands in a motion to gesture the continuation of his sentence, not really wanting to finish it himself.

“Just come inside for a bit.”

He sighed in defeat, standing up from the cow and patting her softly as he removed himself from her side. He really suited this life, and it’s a darn shame that he can’t do too much with it.

He walked inside slowly, dragging his feet.

“Don’t get sulky.”

Uncle and Jack returned from Blackwater, pulling up in the wagon. Abigail had left the house to greet them and assist them while John did god-knows-what, something or other to do with the milk.

Jack and Uncle were having a conversation, or maybe an argument, about something in Blackwater, and they were asking Abigail her opinion as they unpacked the back of the wagon.

Arthur didn’t necessarily expect anyone to understand the struggles he had to deal with, he was dealt a poor hand, and partially, it was his fault. His days were numbered, and despite the unconditional love and support that everyone offered him, it only did so much into elongating that timer. It was a silent rule that we all knew it’d happen, and once it did, we’d most likely all point fingers on who’s to blame.

“Arthur.” Jack called out, grabbing his attention from his dreary thoughts and tossing him a fresh notebook. It lifted his spirits almost immediately. “I noticed your old one was getting full.” He responded plainly.

“Thanks, kid.” He smiled, still very clearly unwell and needing to rest but his mood had been lifted slightly. He walked through the front door quickly, wanting to get through before they’d be rushing things to and from inside the house.

He walked over to the fridge and pulled out a cold glass bottle of water, looking over at you begrudgingly as he sat down on the dining room table and flipped through the soft new pages of the notebook.

“Any idea what you’ll do with it yet?”

He shook his head plainly. “No, I might draw some of the horses. Been a while since I drew Boadicea, or Rachel.” He shrugged. “Could draw Neil if he’d stand still.”

“That’s good.”

“Might go up to Owanjila at some point.”

“You could make a day of it.”

“Yeah, I could.”

You let out an exasperated sigh. “Can you stop doing that?” You cursed at him, agitated by how he was acting. “Don’t get upset at me over this.”

“I was fine.” He gritted his teeth.

“You were on the ground struggling to breathe.” You bit back, emphasising every word. He didn’t respond, just glancing away from you. He knew you were right, but didn’t want to admit it since it was inherently showing more weakness. “You...” You trailed off briefly.

“Sorry.” He mumbled, interjecting the conversation. “Jus’.. Don’t wanna be useless.”

“You’re not useless, you’re sick.”

“I know but—”

“Don’t you even try to compare yourself to Uncle.” Arthur stayed silent as you hit the nail on the head. “You did enough work today. Relax. Draw, journal, something. You have a few hours until the sun sets.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll make a deal with you.”

“What?” He was beginning to come across as overly defensive, though softened into a defeated sigh as you tried to compromise.

“Abigail gets angry at me, she don’t like how I do the dishes or clean clothes.” I rolled my eyes. “I’ll pro’lly try to help with the yard work. You can do more with less hassle.”

“I guess.” He shrugged.

“Weather forecasts think that it might rain sometime this week, means less work here, we can go to Owanjila.” He wasn’t too keen on it being babysat but he accepted it nonetheless.

“That’d be kinda nice...” He trailed off.

“We can do some fishin’ so they don’t think we’re bein lazy.” It was clear who the ‘they’ was in that sentence, which made him laugh in a silent exhale. “You can draw some of the scenery, set up a mini camp and just.. Have a day off. Hows that?”

“But—”

“Stop. You need to stop.”

“I’m bored!” He said, clearly agitated and exhausted. “I need something to do, ‘nd everyone jus’ wants me to rest but I gotta do somethin’ or I feel like shit.”

“I just suggested something.” I said sternly.

He looks around the dining area, chewing the inside of his cheek as he considers the idea. He sucked on his teeth slightly.

“Tch... Fine.” He admitted, like a defeated child.

There’s a long moment of silence, and you reach across the table to hold his hand. He continues to avoid eye contact, and his hand doesn’t hold yours back.

Arthur’s voice is barely above a mumble; so sulky for a man so strong, or so he claims to be. Your eyes flickered between his gaze and him, waiting for him to speak. Arthur, desperate to look literally anywhere else, found himself staring at John’s taxidermied squirrel. If you didn’t know any better, one would probably assume he’s admiring the finest piece of art the 1900s has to offer. He seems to linger on the concept for a while, which worries you. You can’t help but wonder what’s going on in that mind of his.

The silence blares in your ears for a bit too long. Clearing his throat, Arthur looked you in the eyes.

“We’ll see how things go.”

#asks #arthur morgan #fluff #angst #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr #arthur morgan rdr2 #rdr2 arthur morgan #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan fluff #arthur morgan angst

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zurdurer · 6 months ago

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Re-listening to malevolent from part 1 and I'm less than 5 minutes in and am already getting so worried for the next updates - also my tired brain is making shoddy (probably very obvious) connections

Btw it's been a while since I started this and I did not go further in the 1st episode than 5 minutes cus I stopped to write this lol

So urh spoiler warning for Malevolent probably!!

So it starts by flicking through radio stations followed by Arthur making panic noises. Then he's scared, can't remember who/ where he is, what happened and has a voice inside his head. Soo this got me thinking, obviously there's significance in the music. There's no way that it's JUST setting the scene of the office, it may be that in part don't get me wrong but given later context there may be a lot more in it.

Obviously there are musical associations with Kayne so this could be symbolising the beginning of his interest, the point where Kayne discovers Arthur? Or at least this one to see how he works out situations. There are probably things I've missed or forgotten that meant my brain thought of this but I cannot remember right now for the life of me.

What sticks out to me though is that the only times we hear or have mention of radio (to my knowledge) is when Arthur is in the coma (it's mentioned that John listened to the radio during) and at the end of part 43 after the resurrection. So they're pretty big events. The entity appearing, John's time alone in the care of the nurse, Arthur coming back.

I mean this could all mean nothing but if either idea holds any truth to the meaning of radio in this show then I have some ideas (and concerns) for what may happen in 43.

If radio signifies the attention of Kayne then 44 may include a visit from a very irritated and blood stained god. Which yk- that could be fuuun!!

However! I'm more worried about how similar that last snipet of 43 is to the beginning of 1. I'm concerned that maybe this will be cyclical. People are talkin about Arthur losing memories but oh my gods is that a concerningly possible future. Maybe I'm misremembering 43 but book event followed by Arthur not having fun followed by the KIY being his friend in some capacity with radio somewhere in the mix feels far too similar so it would not at all surprise me if memory fuckery was back too.

bonus thought about the beginning of the first episode. the song that played could have been a little reference to their developed relationship. The switching stations being their rocky start and journey before settling on a song that is preferred and turned up high as they accept their love for the other and they both become each other's main focus. The lyrics do just fit so well I mean come ON

"I cant forget the night i met you, thats all im dreaming of // and you call it madness, ah but i call it love"

ITS LITERALLY THEM!! Gods they make me sick

Anyway. Yeah so I'm concerned for 44 but am way too tired to think about anything much longer

#malevolent #arthur lester #malevolent 43 spoilers #malevolent spoilers #im so tired #but very excited for the nsxt part!!!#please forgive me if none of this shit makes sense #rambles #text post #should i make a speaking tag #it might not be a bad idea

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r0ckstar00 · 5 months ago

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EXCALIBUR'S WRATH (Sonic and the Black Knight 2)

Everyone knew the tale.

The tale of a cobalt hedgehog, drifting in from another dimension, swooping down to rid the world of plague that had haunted them for years. The tale of a witch obsessed with immortality and afraid of the changes her kingdom may face. The tale of how the hero ended up the "bad guy", the opposition ending her delusion and restoring the world the way it should be.

Yes, everyone knows that tale. But there is one that no one ever speaks of - one far more significant than the former. One that changed the world for good.

This... is the tale of Excalibur's Wrath.

Do you dare to fight again?

When Camelot recovers from their gruesome battle with the Dark Queen, another sinister evil lurks from underneath. From the dark army reappearing from thin air to the disappearance of the all-powerful sword Excalibur (or Caliburn as he much rather prefer to be called), the Knights of the Round Table are at a loss.

Who is this enemy?

With no answers and far too many questions, they all decide to recall King Arthur otherwise known as the trusty cobalt hedgehog named Sonic the Hedgehog. Perhaps in their time of need might he shine the brightest.

But without the power of Excalibur, Sonic fears that he may not be able to stop the looming doom that taints the world with its dark color. With a dire situation lingering over his head, will he have the strength to push back? Or will he be overcome with powerlessness, unable to fight back?

A/N: Surprise. Sequel to Sonic and the Black Knight 2! This will be my home page for all the chapters and information you might need in order to understand some things in the book (and me too because I know NOTHING about old tales the sword in the stone).

This idea only came to me as a joke. I started saying like “what if I wrote a sequel to a game that doesn’t really need one?” and so then the gears in my brain started to turn and I came up with this.

And so, this idea has been nurtured so much that I would HONESTLY say that this could work as an actual game. I would put it on the switch for convenience (cause the Wii is a little outdated as of now lol), but it could so work. All it needs is Jason Griffith and a whole lot of coding.

Enough of me talking, though. I’m sure you want to know the cast. And might I say I’ve introduced nearly 5 new characters into the world of Camelot, a few you’d be surprised to see.

I also have a few more side notes; since this is basically fan-made there WILL be implied ships. Which ones? I’ll let you figure that out. ~

MAIN CAST (I’ll put descriptions for them later)

King Arthur / Sonic

The King of Camelot. Dubbed the Knight of the Wind in the past, this speedy hedgehog grew to take over the kingdom in a long, treacherous journey that involved various risks. Seeing his potential and bravery to fight for an unknown land, Caliburn - now Excalibur - had decided to grant him the title of King. However, nothing can keep this hedgehog in one spot for long, so he's unable to run his kingdom properly. Although he is the true King, Merlina manages everything he can't.

Merlina

The "co-ruler" of Camelot. Once a tyrant obsessed with the idea of immortality, she now spends her days rebuilding the kingdom that she almost destroyed. She makes decisions for the kingdom in King Arthur's absence and takes charge of the Knights of the Round Table. Merlina wishes to become the best mage in the world to protect her newfound kingdom from harm, and she will stop at nothing to do so.

Sir Lancelot / Shadow

The first Knight of the Round Table. He was the first knight that King Arthur faced, and perhaps even his most loyal follower. Sir Lancelot fights beside him chivalrously, ensuring that his King is not hurt in any way, shape or form. After Arthur's unfortunate departure, he finds himself introverted - perhaps longing for the battles he used to have. He takes it upon himself to fight for the kingdom, even if Arthur isn't around.

Sir Gawain / Knuckles

WIP

Sir Percival / Blaze

WIP

Sir Galahad / Silver

WIP

Sir Lamorak / Jet

WIP

Lady of the Lake | Nimue / Amy

A water deity residing in the Deep Woods, the adoptive mother of Sir Lancelot and Exalibur's original owner, Nimue has a lot of things going for her. She often guides newcomers, the Knights of the Round Table or even King Arthur himself with her words of wisdom, preferring that to the gruesome battles the others face. However, she is not unwilling to use her magic to protect the ones she loves.

Griffin / Tails

The townspeople's blacksmith. Although he's rather young and scrawny, Griffin has been known to be able to fix anything brought into his shop which often comes in handy when the Knights of the Round Table need it. He's known to have certain complex inferiority issues, though all that is pushed aside when he looks at his weapons and armor in action.

Orella / Rouge

A winemaker and a collector of fine jewels and rarities. She's independent, rather bossy, and knows just how to sweeten people over with only a few words and a certain look. She runs the largest wine business in Camelot and gets intel from every place on the map. Perhaps she'll share it with you... if you give her something in return.

Adelaide / Cream

A lonesome child wandering through the forest in search of her mother who she only has memories of. She's a master of the wilderness, knowing which berries are poisonous, knowing which plants you cannot touch under any circumstances, and she even knows how to survive on her own all at the tender age of six. There is also a secret she hides deep within her - one that she must not let anyone see, lest someone abuse it.

Raziel / Espio

Being a scribe and a poet isn't easy, especially when witnessing the downfall of both King Arthur and the Dark Queen. He has information about everything - whether it be the sacred legends of time, or even just about any place on the map. Any practical information he has, he's willing to share with anyone he deems acceptable and worthy. But if you also wanna listen to his poems too, that's acceptable.

Kazamir / Metal Sonic

An underling created by Mordred to keep the knights at bay. He was created with the speed and dexterity of Arthur, and to the naked eye, the two could even be mistaken as twins. It's only when they look up close do they realize that he's completely made out of painted metal - and remnants of dark magic.

Mordred

An ancient spirit set from decades ago, desperate to rule the kingdom that was selfishly taken from him by the original King Arthur. A master of dark magic, manipulation, and someone with a whole army by his side, he will stop at nothing to take back the kingdom that was rightfully his.

#sonic the hedgehog #sonic and the black knight #sonic #shadow the hedgehog #knuckles the echidna #blaze the cat #rouge the bat #cream the rabbit #metal sonic #sonic writing #writing

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nemesis-is-my-middle-name · 2 months ago

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actually i can't stop thinking about this now. like, from jarthur's pov, the convo with yellow in The Order is the emotional resolution of arthur acknowledging that yellow's only sin was being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it's arthur's own fault things turned out the way they did. it's also him getting to be petty and annoy larson at the same time for a fun bonus but that's unrelated

from noel's pov though?? ten minutes ago he thought he was gonna be facing down with the outer god who tortured him for ten years nonstop. he was prepared to do Anything At All to avoid falling back into his clutches. and now this random anemic underfed brit he came in with is? shamelessly antagonizing him with zero fear? looking at the mainstay of his worst nightmares with pity? going "you're so far beneath me that i feel responsible for and sorry for you." and he's done this twice?? there's been two different fragments of The King Himself in his head and not only is he not dead, not only has he not been driven completely mad, he's playing this one like a goddamn cheap kazoo. earlier noel watched yellow take a man and drive him to bash his own brains out so he knows how far from toothless he is. arthur just called him a pet. he's calling him yellow for fuck's sake. he gave the KIY a stupid diminutive nickname and is absolutely unconcerned by how pissed off he's getting which is fair because no consequences are materializing for him. and this is the bad end, apparently. the other king fragment is just like, a guy now? he wants to be called john. larson is making fun of him for being sensitive. like, actually, what the fuck. how did he do that. why did he do that. noel didn't even think he knew the king. why did he not mention any of this at any point before just now.

like, this is all possible bc yellow and john are both just fragments, but the more relevant thing is that you kind of can't tell that because arthur carries himself like the idea of the king being any kind of a threat to him is laughable. honestly really impressive that noel just goes along with it. im dying to know his internal reaction to arthur's "your whole 'i'm a god' shtick is honestly so sad and pathetic and i'm sorry for how many times i kicked you while i had you trapped and collared" thing to yellow. then again he did also see how he dealt with collins earlier so maybe he's just realizing that arthur's completely incorrigible at all times constantly. what was i talking about again. anyway.

#the nemesis speaks #mv liveblog #malevolent spoilers #s4 was just arthur in his element for fucking once revealing that there is no force on god's earth that can stop him needling people #call the hitman a good dog. threaten to frame a priest for murder. extort that mason. down to an elder god like they're a bratty kid.#completely incurable i love that for him #but yellow's visually indistinguishable from the king even for john. noel addresses him as ''king.''#arthur calling him yellow?? COMPLETELY left field insanely ballsy choice from noel's pov.#''oh he knows the mouse'' moment

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ghostofvalorie · 8 months ago

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That Essay

@forsaire tagged me and now I MUST provide! You opened Pandora's box on this one.

To adhere to the rules I will first provide FOUR and ONLY FOUR of my fictional crushes! And to make it easier on us all I've narrowed it down to games only, so here we go!

I'm starting off from the very beginning of my journey into crushing on non-existent people, and people who have read my tags before might know this one already!

Malik Al Sayf from Assassins Creed 1 - 2007

A man whom you've wrong by being arrogant and then spends the next few hours of the game being yelled at by him, and rightfully so. Not only do you cost him his arm and place as an assassin in the brotherhood, but his younger brother as well.

Eventually Altaïr stops begin a prick and apologizes and Malik, bless his heart forgives him.

Still... not me rolling into Jerusalem hoping, wishing, to get yelled at because Malik's Voice Actor goes HARD <3 I love him and his 7 whole polygons! NEXT!!

Keeping it somewhat chronological:

The Arishok from Dragon Age 2 - 2011

He beeg. He got horns. He is technically an antagonist in the game but he has a moral code that makes sense to him that he is willing to kill and die for. Qunari famously live their lives incredibly black and white so to him he is in the right, even if we disagree.

But he just got a wholeass vibe, and he'll say nice things such as

"I have a growing lack of disgust for you" and I mean, with that voice... say no more sir. *takes shirt off*

NR 3: Adam Jensen from Deus Ex - 2011-2016

My cyborg husband <3

Ex-swat turned security guy, then interpool agent (depends on which game you are playing)

He's just an incredibly good guy, the sweetest person on the block. Ofc it depends on how you play and what choices you make, but MY Adam is a sweeheart that will go out of his way to help people.

And my boi got sass, he'll be snarky to literally anyone, his boss, the cops, criminals you name it.

He's also secretly a little funny. <3

Nr 4: Arthur Morgan from Red Dead Redemption 2 - 2018

I mean first off, he do a little *mlem* when he drinks coffee... Do i even need to say more?

Arthur is just such a perfect sad boy. Raised to believe his only worth lies in killing people when in reality he is incredibly competent, sharp and caring. Again depends on how you play the game, but my Arthur is the goodest boi in the west.

Now that was four, oh but look, somehow completely unrelated to all this, some other honorable mentions seems to have ended up after the cut, how silly of me!

And @xintothewoodswegox, show us what you got!

Beast from Beauty and the Beast - 2017

No further comment, your honor, if you've seen the movie you should know.

Kaidan Alenko from Mass Effect - 2012

How can we not love the powerful nerdass space magician! He's caring, he is cute, he is Canadian and schrodinger's person of color!

He also glow blue, what else can you possible want? I for sure do NOT kick my feet and twirl my hair anytime he wants to talk to me.

Eris Goddess of Chaos from Sinbad - 2003

I MEAN LOOK AT HER?!?!?!? Again an antagonist, but she is sexy about it.

Helga Sinclair from Atlantis - 2001

I'm-I i mean, I don't even have words. Every time I SEE Helga my brain flat-lines I can't help it.

THAT GIF THO???

Majima Goro from the Like a Dragon series of games

No comment, because if i start i will NEVER stop, he's story is too good.

Simon 'Ghost' Riley from Call of Duty MWII - 2022

I could literally put ALL the characters from that game in this list. ALL OF THEM, but to keep this somewhat short I've chosen ONE and i've chosen Ghost, the most tragic man alive.

Kar'niss from Baldur's Gate 3 - 2023

Another TRAGIC boi, missunderstood and abused </3 I could take care of him. LET ME TAKE CARE OF HIM LARIAN

Jonathan Reid from Vampyr - 2018

You didn't think I'd squeeze in a vampire this late, did you?

I wasn't overly impressed by Jonathan from the start, BUT, he is FASCINATING if you play him as a bloodthirsty villain willing to murder everyone for power! I'm here for bad-boy Reid!

Lastly, for now:

Corvo Attano from Dishonored - 2012

Also an incredibly tragic man, who's fate you hold in your hands with your actions!

He's just hot, he's a dilf, he can succumb to grief and violence or rise above it to save not only his daughter but an entire empire from destruction.

I'm not sure i've y'all have noticed the pattern yet but let me spell it out for you:

PEOPLE THAT CAN ABSOLUTELY DESTROY ME! Look at them all! So STRONG! So POWERFUL! Fuck, mess me up fam!

And the beauty lies in that they never would. Or I mean Eris might... but I'm in a firm belief that the others would never harm someone they care about and ain't that just the purest thing you've ever heard.

Now this was only the highlights of my fictional crushes, I've kept most of the absolute freaks out for now. Maybe I'll do an updated list later where werewolves and Cthulhu makes the cut, we'll see. Now I know HP Lovecraft wasn't a very cool dude to say the least, but you expect me to be normal about the big tentacle monster? REALLY?

Lower your expectations.

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historia-vitae-magistras · 9 months ago

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Hi, I hope you don't mind me asking but why did Zee hate being a nurse? Well, other than her being forced into the role

I don't think she hated it at first. She loved being a professional in a crisp uniform with real rank and authority all her own on the virtue of her education and experience. It's a far cry from being permitted to do more or less whatever she likes because her father is a man with rank and authority. She likes the puzzle of diagnosis, the riddle of keeping people alive, and the profound speed with which medicine advances thrills her. But even as young as she is by the standards of her own kind, she still gets a bit restless. And it's in those times that just how unfuckingfair everything hits her.

When Jack's bored, he can pick up anything he pleases. Natural history, biology, paleontology, leather tanning, winemaking. If he's tired of the city, he can just up and fuck off into the interior to be a stock hand If he wants. No one will stop him. And to a certain extent, she can too if she really wants, but it's just so much harder and riskier. What she is does give her a certain amount of protection, but it's still a hard thing to pull off. So she switches jobs, visits her father or a brother or friends or throws on trousers, and leaves gender behind entirely. But life is still so often a choice between harrowing or stifling.

Patients love her; she's an excellent nurse. She's funny, a bit naughty, and always partial to her own. She can give as much as she gets when speech becomes sparing. She continued in pediatric and community nursing over time, but I think she got heartily sick of nursing during WWI. She climbed the cliffs of Gallipoli half out of spite but still took the hill of Chanuk Bair. She left her gender behind and smashed her brains in with rocks like any other half-starved body on the trench line. She did her part to cut that hill from Turkish hands at bayonet point. She showed a talent and a propensity for violence no one wants to believe exists in pretty young women. The only real victory Gallipoli saw was hers, brought to heel by her brutality. But then the British lost the captured ground almost instantly, and it was for nothing.

She slides back into nursing not long after as Churchill's foolishness finally comes to a close, and she spends the rest of 1916 trying to preserve whatever decency, whatever sanity remains to her and Jack. And that's almost harder for her to do as a nurse, witnessing death after disease after devastating injury, one after another after another. She wanders around as she likes from unit to unit, corset or helmet on and off, but often feels guilty when it's not in a corset because nurses are in much higher demand than any grunt with a rifle. Sometimes, she just can't stand the sight of another broken body. But she does kind of redeem nursing for herself by mid-1917 when the British army commands that dominion nurses can't be trained as anesthesiologists, and she only mentions Canada and Australia. I always think of that as a sly little move on Arthur's part because it puts Zee on a pay and rank basis equal to doctors for the first time and that her forceful personality can go to some real reforming use for the first time in a while.

So yeah, too long didn't read: it's not that she hated nursing so much as she hates misogyny and the front-row seat to senseless violence it granted her.

#the ask box || probis pateo #zee || ahakoa he iti he pounamu #meatsack mechanics || the sociology and biology of nations

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verdemoun · 2 months ago

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What subjects do you think the vdlg was good at in school?

quick high school au. grimshaw, hosea, dutch, pearson, swanson, uncle, molly and strauss are all teachers. rest of the gang is de-aged to teens.

arthur: art. he is the definition of the quiet kid the teachers let sit in the art classroom during lunch despite rules because he all he wanted was the peace and quiet to draw

john: pe. not just the actual physical activity side of it but really good at the health and human development, understanding of physiology side of it. could've been an all-star if he hadn't had an injury in middle school

javier: languages and music. unsurprisingly his brain is just pre-disposed to the particular process of learning third/fourth/fifth languages after moving to america as a very smol bean and having to learn english. still argues sheet music is easier to read than shakespeare. english is his least favorite language.

bill: chemistry. admittedly he can't explain how he's good at it and will forget a formula the second he learns it but on the practical side of things will outperform the teacher on experiments.

micah: home economics/FCS. which he will never admit to liking. but a bit of privacy and encouragement from his fav teacher and he can patch clothes, and cook like he's been doing it since was seven years old (because his father's an alcoholic and his mother died so he had to take over domestic duties to look after his little brother)

charles: vocational. woodwork, metalwork, outdoor ed, anything he can do with his hands without being in a classroom.

sean: history is the only class he pays attention in. except he's usually correcting the teacher because 'but my da said' and then going on with a mostly fantastical story about revolution and victory for the working class.

lenny: legal studies. he wishes it wasn't how his brain worked, but it's really intuitive to him even without his father's pressure to excel. he can't help he's got that belief that in righteousness and social justice. presentation on a class action? lenny and sean dream team going to make you think you're in court.

sadie: automotive! at least when she bothers to show up. she skips school more than sean does, usually to hang out with her bf jake and give him a heart attack as he plays backpack on their motorbike.

karen: english but only persuasive writing. captain of the debate team. her and lenny get into a fight it's the presidential debate. sean is increasingly aware he might just have a thing for being yelled at.

tilly: maths, specifically financial maths. but she's an all-rounder who knows she can go into absolutely any field she wants because she's just designed to learn. despite all warnings not to, she decides to go into teaching.

mary-beth: also maths. obviously she loves english but she is a maths prodigy effortlessly doing work several grades ahead of her actual level. when she eventually decides to pursue creative writing she has to put up with everyone who knows her telling her she wasted her potential. no i'm not projecting.

abigail: drama. she's hosea's little prodigy, lead for every play and landing some minor acting jobs while still in school. she's going to end up getting pregnant at prom and spend the next 5 years putting up with john's bs before he decides to grow up.

trelawney: it! he's amazing with computers, stopped attending school for two years at only to reappear at graduation with his wife in a fancy car. he was definitely running scams and apparently already owns his first house and is talking about getting a bigger one for when their first born arrives. he's 19.

kieran: english. yes, he couldn't read until senior school because it took that long for the teachers to realise he is hella dyslexic. but he's getting a lot better at it and it's still his best subject because he's just terrible at everything else.

#moss yaps #rdr2 highschool au?? i guess

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gimmethosedaddymilkers · 2 years ago

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Letters Kept Secret

This was requested by lovely @cantchoosejust1 Who actually wrote out most of the beginning idea, and I kept the ball rolling.

This one is just fluff y’all!

Nothing to hide from the people in the room lmao

Tags: @mrsarthurmorgan7 @kieropal @6kaja9 @photo1030

*Dear Arthur,

Arthur's skin prickled as he stared into the fire. It was nearly dark out, the sun was on the verge of dipping completely under the horizon and as soon as it did Horseshoe Overlook would be left in darkness.

You had left camp nearly six hours ago.

You weren't his to worry about, the two of you weren't together, and he hadn't told you anything about how he'd felt.

He couldn't let himself tell you. He couldn't. Not when you were just too damn perfect for him.

That wasn't the most important thing in the front of his mind though.

Six hours was way too long.

And he couldn't do anything. He had no clue where you were, what you were doing.

But he was worried.

He'd never admit it to you out loud that he was worried about you.

Never.

But he was worried. Worried about you, worried you were dead somewhere, lying in a ditch with a bullet in your forehead or temple.

Worried that you'd been bucked from your horse and had a broken leg somewhere, unable to call for help, without food, and alone.

Worried that maybe....

Instead of those things...

Maybe you'd just decided to leave the Gang. Maybe you'd had enough, and finally decided that you just couldn't handle it anymore. Couldn't deal with the robbing, the killing, the conning.

With him.

Arthur ran a hand over his face, sighing deeply as he looked into the flames.

"Ah, Mi Amigo, why do you look so down? It's a lovely night, not too hot, not too cold. Fantastic weather for a nice singalong." Javier takes a seat with a smile across from the older outlaw, grabbing his guitar as soon as he was comfortable.

"Jus'....thinkin'." Arthur sighs. "Jus' thinkin' that's all. Too much goin' on in my head Javier."

Javier smiles and nods quietly, tuning his guitar before offering a quiet and comforting tune.

"About what brother?"

Arthur hesitates for a moment.

The idea of even uttering your name as the topic of what he's worried about...

He knows he'll get picked on, but not only that he knows that if he tells Javier, hell anyone, then you'll eventually hear about it, and whether or not he specifically says that he's sweet on you or not...his worry is bound to be taken that way. The men in camp had a tendency to...well tease.

His hesitation doesn't last long. His anxiety wins over and a part of his brain hoped that maybe Javier would be able to ease it.

"Just....Y/N. She left about...damn near six hours ago now...I just...She ain't never been outta camp that long, I'm...worried about her...is all." He clears his throat, and scratches the back of his neck, avoiding Javier's gaze as he begins to strum the tune of "Poor Lonesome Cowboy" one of Arthur's favorites.

"Ah, Mi Amigo," Javier smiles and looks down to his hand as he continues to strum along. "You have nothing to worry about. Nothing at all."

"Javier, you know just as well as I do that it ain't kind outside of camp, hell it ain't kind inside of camp, I got plenty to worry about."

"Y/N is a strong woman." Javier looks up, and offers a smile. "Not only that, but she can't stay away from camp for too long, she likes it here too much."

Arthur snorts and raises an eyebrow.

"The hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Haven't you ever noticed the look on her face when she's talking to you?"

"What the hell are you talkin' about?" Arthur scoffs and looks at his feet.

"What I'm trying to say," Javier sighs and strums one more cord before he stops and begins to dig around in his pocket. "She likes YOU too much to not do her best to return."

"I ain't got the faintest idea of what the hell you're talkin' about." Arthur looks back up, furrowing his brows as he watches Javier procure a piece of folded up paper.

"I found this after Y/N left," He explained, handing it towards Arthur. "I think it might have fallen from her pocket, I think maybe you should read it."

Arthur swallows before taking the note, a sudden surge of nerves firing through him.

A note?

Why the hell would you need a note for? And did you mean to leave it behind? Or did it actually fall out of your pocket?

If it did was it really his place to read it?

But...Javier said that he should read it...

Taking a deep breath he took the paper between his pointer and thumb, feeling the coarseness of the material between his fingers.

"Alright...if you say so."

Javier nods and looks towards the cliffside of Horseshoe Overlook.

"You can get some nice light over there, what's left of the sunset."

Taking the hint Arthur nods and pushes himself off the seat he'd been sitting on.

With each step towards the cliffside his stomach twisted in knots, feeling as though his fingers were burning where he touched the paper.

As soon as he was away from prying eyes he opened the letter, unfolding it gently, making sure not to damage the paper in any way.

I can't think of a better way to do this though I really wish I could. I wish I could say it to your face, say it with my own words, and say it all sober, say it with confidence and bravado, and say it with all the sickly-sweet words that you deserve to hear.

But, to be honest with you Arthur, I'm nothing but a coward.

I'm too shy to even attempt to say what I wish I could, for fear of tripping over my own words, and for fear of your rejection.

It'll be a miracle if you ever even see this, for all I know at the moment I'm only writing to myself to get this out of my system.

I can hardly speak to you as it is, or at least it feels that way. Every time you joke with me, make me laugh, make me smile, I struggle to even look you in the eye.

It's the same when I make you laugh.

It's a sound I wish I could hear more often, your laugh is so hearty, and deep, it makes me feel so....

Warm, I guess is the right way to explain it.

In those moments, I know if I look you in the eye I'll be nothing but putty in your hands, and I won't be able to get an entire sentence out without stumbling over every word that exits my mouth.

You are by far the sweetest, kindest, and yet most tough man I have ever met in my entire life, and that...Makes you extremely attractive Arthur, and quite honestly I have no idea what to do about it.

I would give anything to be able to properly express what I feel for you, but it seems even in writing I don't have it.

Every time I see you, whether its just a simple flash of that smile towards me, or bringing me coffee in the morning, I just get this feeling in the pit of my stomach, like the sun itself is sitting there.

You light up my entire day, if I talk to you in the morning I'm in a good mood for the rest of the day.

Arthur you make me feel just so....

Happy, you make me so excited to come into camp, I find myself looking to make sure your horse is tied up every time I come back or wake up, just to make sure I know whether or not to be excited.

Watching you get so excited over your hobbies too, outside of jobs, makes me so happy.

You are far smarter than you give yourself credit for. I hear you badmouth yourself all the time.

But I also see you read all the time, on those hot days when you have nothing better to, I've seen you finish books after books, a smile on your face as you read along.

I've see that smile show up when you doodle in that journal of yours.

Arthur I could almost write that you're my world.

If only I could say it to your damn face.

If only you didn't turn me into a fool.

If only, I had a little more to offer to you.*

Arthur blinked, re-reading certain parts of the letter, his face heating as though he was seeing something incredibly private he wasn't supposed to have stumbled upon.

In a way he was, yet at the same time it was addressed to him.

"Arthur...I...You...Uh...did you read it?"

Arthur lifts his head quickly, folding the letter quickly as he realizes its you standing behind him.

For a moment he's stuck, a weight lifted from his chest now that you were back, but another replaced it, seeing how he'd been caught red-handed, even though he wasn't necessarily doing something wrong.

"You can tell me the truth...I...I saw you with it Arthur."

He swallows for a moment, and then quietly nods.

"You....ya really feel like that Y/N?"

"I know...it's....I'm really sorry Arthur, I really am, I shouldn't have wrote it, I should have kept my damn feelings to myself, it's okay that you don't feel the same-"

"What the hell makes you think I don't feel the same?"

You're silent for a moment, watching his oceanic eyes, trying to detect that familiar sarcasm he carried so easily.

"Arthur, I...I don't understand-"

"I'll ask ya again," He stands straighter and moves a little closer to you, standing just inches away from you. "What makes you think I don't feel the same?"

"Arthur you can't. I'm nothing special, I know that. I'm not any particular gunslinger, I'm not fantastic at robbing or anything of the sort, I don't have any special talents...Arthur I'm plain, I'm nothing like you, I have nothing new or exciting to offer you."

Arthur's fingers find your chin, and he gently tilts your head to look at him.

"You ain't gotta be some kinda gunslinger to win me over, you ain't gotta have some, special talent, and don't you go around sayin' you don't have any cause ya do, and I like the fact that you ain't like me. I don't want you to be like me, part of why I like ya so much is because you're so different than me."

He pauses, but only for a moment.

"I hate me Y/N. I hate me a lot. But I don't hate you, because you're good, and you ain't a killer. The way you described me? I ain't never had anyone describe me like that...but...I feel that exact same way when I see you."

He smiles and looks to the ground quickly before looking back at you, gently moving his hand to place his palm on your cheek, his smile widening slightly as you grab his wrist softly.

"I feel like I've got a furnace in me, I'm warm and, shit sometimes I get them damn butterflies like I'm a little school boy. I stumble over the shit I say when I look at you all the damn time, I just...got good at coverin' it up."

You blink, and can't help but smile yourself, your face turning red under his palm.

"You...really? You really feel the same Arthur?"

"Course I do Darlin', I'm surprised you ain't never realized it. I apparently ain't that good at hidin' it, Javier seemed to sniff it out a mile away."

You feel your heart skip a beat at his nickname for you, and you swallow.

"Arthur....I...Will you kiss me?"

"I'd love to."

With that he leans forwards, and presses his lips to yours, soft and gentle, and your entire body heats, feeling as though he himself is the sun, heating you from the inside out.

His hand remains on your cheek and the other grabs your waist, pulling him flush against him, and you've never felt so comfortable in your life.

Something about kissing him.

It felt right, it felt as though you were meant to do it.

Suddenly you were very glad that that letter had slipped out of your pocket that morning.

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