the way mary and arthur is a parallel to each other... eldest son and eldest daughter living in a dysfunctional home. growing unhinged patriarch, that is their Father. their younger brother struggled with their identity and running away from home because of the broken family dynamic, while the both of them struggle with the role of being a parentified child.... good shit.
she just wasn’t expected to do any work . she was dutch's girlfriend , and that came with different rules . if she was supposed to help out , susan would've made her do it , just like she does with every other woman in camp . but she didn't , because dutch's word was final . she wasn’t part of the gang for chores or robberies , she was there for dutch , and that was the only reason .
" why didn't she just leave ? "
because she couldn't . molly had nowhere to go , no money , no horse , no weapon , and no one to help her . she didn’t know how to survive on her own , and she was completely alone in a country she barely understood . dutch made her be totally dependant on him , and once he abandoned her , she had no way out . it's not as simple as " just leave " when you have nothing and no one .
" molly died because she wanted attention from dutch ! "
she died because she was broken . she was ignored , isolated , abused , and abandoned until she couldn’t take it anymore . her mental health was so bad , she lied about being a rat not to get attention but because she didn’t care what happened to her anymore . she wanted it to end . and susan shot her dead in front of everyone .
her final act was desperate , sad , and a cry from someone who lost everything . and in the end , she was right about dutch before anyone else — so she had the last word , even if no one listened .
Arthur could feel it—same as feelin’ the sun on his back or the breeze off the river. She thought she was bein’ sneaky, standin’ there with that damn laundry basket like she wasn’t burnin’ holes clean through him with her eyes.
He sighed low, dragging the razor slow down his jaw, careful and steady. No hurry. Couldn’t be, not with a blade this sharp near his throat. And not with her there—lookin’ at him like that.
Christ. She had no business lookin’ at him like that.
Too young. Too soft. Too full of foolish dreams and trouble he wasn’t about to reach for.
But God, if he didn’t notice every time she hovered near. Or sat by the fire just to be close. Or glanced sideways at him when she thought he wasn’t payin’ attention.
He was always payin’ attention.
The razor scraped clean, smooth down his cheek. He dipped it in the basin, shaking off the soap.
"Enjoyin’ the show there, little miss?" he drawled without lookin’, eyes flickin’ sideways to catch the way she stiffened—caught good and proper.
Her mouth opened, stammering something about restin’ her arms. Poor damn excuse. Cute, though. Sweet. Made his chest twist the way it hadn’t in years.
He kept on shaving, hiding the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Gotta be careful starin’ at a man while he’s holdin’ somethin’ sharp, y’know."
"I ain’t scared of you," she shot back, brave as ever.
Brave. Foolish. Beautiful.
Arthur rinsed the blade again, watched the sun catch in her hair as she shifted her weight—feet nervous, but eyes bold.
"You're too young for me anyway. Oughta keep your pretty eyes on somethin’ else."
He meant it. Mostly. But it sounded weaker every time he said it. Like maybe he was tryin’ to remind himself more than her.
And then she said it. Soft, like it didn’t matter. Like she wasn’t wreckin’ him without even tryin’:
"I don’t care how old you are. Ain’t my fault you look like that."
Arthur nearly cut himself.
Christ.
His throat worked slow. Careful. The razor dragging clean along the curve, but his hand wasn’t as steady anymore. Not when she said things like that. Not when she meant it.
"Careful, girl," he muttered rough, the words low like warning and wish all at once. "You keep lookin’ at me like that and you’ll get ideas you got no business havin’."
I’ll get ideas I got no business havin’.
But she only smiled—damn trouble in that smile—and backed away slow, hips swinging like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she wanted him lookin’.
"Guess I’ll have to get real good at hidin’ ‘em, then."
Arthur watched her go. And for the life of him, he wanted her to stay. But he didn’t call her back. Didn’t trust himself to. Not yet.
i think people should make animal ocs for red dead like “this is my oc his name is fart and he was actually the wolf who attacked john” or “this is my oc nut she is was mary-beths childhood cat” what a good idea chloe thank you
"i don't comment on ao3 because i don't wanna be annoying or weird" skill issue + you greatly underestimate the power dynamic here, writing multi paragraph comments is like feeding a bunch of deeply insane and possibly starved ducks at the park and watch them go completely mad over having received a piece of bread
a glimpse into yours and arthur’s not-so-quiet life together after 1899.
word count: 1k
cw(s): third person pov, fem reader, ex-gunslinger reader (and arthur), high honor arthur, fluff, you’re parents and you live on a farm and it’s cute
masterlist
The warm glow of the morning sun spilled across the low hills surrounding their property. A light breeze carried the scent of lilac and fresh grass, and with it came a sense of peace Arthur hadn't always known. The dew sparkled under the golden light, and it reminded him of the glint in his wife’s beautiful eyes.
It was a beautiful morning.
From where Arthur stood, he could see most of their land—a sprawling piece of property nestled safely away from any other folk. Away from any danger. A small red barn stood to the side of the house, paint faded from years of hot sun. Arthur thought about when John had visited to help build it, and he smiled.
He could hear Y/N humming through the screen door—one of those silly folk songs they used to sing at camp years ago. Arthur stepped inside and poured more coffee into his mug.
"Haven't heard that one in a while," Arthur teased, leaning back against the counter and taking a long sip. Y/N was busy cooking up something on the stove, and his stomach growled when he smelled it. "That smells delicious."
He set down his mug and walked up behind her, nestling into the crook of her neck and placing a kiss. The scruff of his beard tickled her just enough to make her giggle. He wrapped his arms around her waist, resting them just below the swell of her belly.
"Well, I figured I owed you, after the day you had yesterday," Y/N smirked as she turned to face him.
The morning prior, Arthur had awoken to an unfortunate surprise. Nearly all of the horses were out of their stables, somehow.
Arthur, the true workhorse he was, woke up and got to work tracking down and wrangling all the horses back to their pen.
Needless to say, it was a difficult day for Arthur. And in his wife’s current state, she obviously wasn’t able to help much.
"I'm sorry I'm not much help with those horses lately. It's just—"
"You don't owe me nothin', sweetheart." He leaned down and kissed her forehead, lingering there for a moment. "You've given me more than enough already. Two beautiful boys..." He bent down and pressed a kiss to her belly. "And another one here pretty soon."
Somehow, Arthur still made Y/N swoon after all these years. She got up on her tiptoes as best as she could and pressed a warm kiss to his lips. He rested his hands on her hips, pressing her close. Well, as close as they could be.
When they pulled away, Y/N turned back to the stovetop, pulling the breakfast hash off the heat. One hand rested on her stomach, almost without thinking.
"I think this one'll be our baby girl," she said softly. "Feels different than the boys did."
Arthur took a long drink of his coffee, watching her with loving eyes. His voice was low and tender. "Really?"
Y/N nodded with certainty as she dished out the food onto plates. The biggest portion for Arthur, the next for herself, and two smaller ones for their boys, Joseph and Calum—five and three, and full of trouble.
"Oh yeah," she said. "She doesn't kick me near as hard as those boys did."
Arthur let out a hearty laugh as he helped her carry the plates to the table. Just as he was about to respond, their attention was drawn to the front yard.
Little voices, wrapped in laughter, echoed toward the porch.
"Go that way, Cal! We'll trap him!"
Arthur stepped outside to see what the commotion was about. Y/N meandered close behind. Bright and early, their boys were already playing cowboys—running about in little hats, brandishing an old lasso they must've found tucked away in the attic. They chased a poor rooster in circles, trying—and failing—to lasso him.
Y/N and Arthur chuckled quietly so the boys wouldn't hear. She leaned over, teasing in an exaggerated accent. "Those boys are pretty darn awful with that lasso, partner.”
Arthur smirked, wrapping an arm around her waist. "Sure are. Reckon they got their mama's aim."
Y/N scoffed in mock offense as Arthur giggled.
"You know I'm teasin'. You've got the second sharpest shot I know."
"And who's the first?"
Arthur leaned against the porch rail, scratching his chin like he was thinking real hard. "Me, of course."
Y/N jabbed him lightly with her elbow, rolling her eyes.
"How'd I know you were gonna say that?"
Arthur smirked, his gaze drifting back toward their boys and that poor rooster.
"'Cause you know it's true, darlin’."
Y/N leaned her head against his shoulder, sighing contentedly as their boys whooped and hollered across the yard.
"Well, cowboy," she teased, "think you can wrangle those boys to the breakfast table?"
Arthur gave her a pointed look, knitting his eyebrows. "Think? Watch this."
He cupped his hands and raised them to his mouth. "BOYS! Your mama cooked you breakfast and it's gettin' cold! Put the rooster down and get up here!"
Y/N bit her lip to stifle a laugh. The boys froze—Joseph mid-throw, Cal dropping his wooden pistol—then scrambled toward the house at full speed.
"Wash your hands!" Y/N called as she and Arthur followed them inside.
Arthur lingered in the doorway for just a moment, taking it all in—the clatter of little boots on wood, the smell of breakfast in the air, Y/N's gentle laughter as she moved past him.
This was it.
Not some dream he'd never reach, not a wish made under a blood moon or whispered over dying embers. This was real. This was his.
Summary: Things are quiet at camp this morning - so you find yourself wrapped up in Arthur's cot, book in hand.
Word Count: 1.0K
Warnings: again, me not knowing anything about RDR2 but trying my best, fluff fluff fluff
A/N: I'm here with another oddball fic for my lovely dear and amazing bestie @bluebellhairpin for her birthday <3 I know about 0 things about RDR2 but I once again tried my best so please be kind😅 -Birch<3
There's a gentle sway to the air. It's subtle, and you would only detect it if you paid attention. It's not quite a shimmer, it's too early in the morning for that. It's not the sizzling heat of the day, either.
It's a calm swirl from the wind, whisps of ash dancing through the violet sky. The sun isn't up yet, but you can feel the warmth it's rays are going to bring. No, it's not from the fire. Or from the man you are lying on.
Okay, maybe it is.
The man under you is warm. He's solid to the touch, firm like the leather of your saddle. There's a suppleness to him, though. Soft edges, even.
There's a softness to his chest, an inviting comfort to lean against. The graze of his hand across your exposed collarbone is tender, his fingers toying with the bodice of your dress.
He is coarse, yes, but he is also sweet.
A low, husky hum bellows out from his chest. The sound is rich and pleasant to your ears. There's a distinct raspiness and crackle to his voice, but you've grown to love the ruggedness that seems to ooze from Arthur.
He doesn't sing, though; he doesn't want to wake anyone else at camp. So, he tightens his free hand around your waist and continues to toy with the exposed skin on your neck.
Pressed flush against his chest, there is no place you would rather be. In your hands is a book you snagged from Mary Beth a while ago. You had nabbed it from one of her packs when you saw her flipping through it, smiling to herself.
You wanted to know what was making her smile.
Now, with your gaze drawn to the very same pages, you have yet to find the reason she smiled so brightly.
The air shifts around you again, and you feel your body flinch in response. It's just the rocking of Arthur's cot, you're fine. But you aren't fine.
Not when your partner is starting to shuffle underneath you, his blue gaze set on the slowly dying fire still popping and smoldering out. "Jus' leave it," you mumble, your lip caught between your teeth as you scan the bottom of a page.
He halts at the sound of your voice, and he knows he's been caught. "I'm goin' to throw another log on, I'll only be a minute," is his gruff response.
You flip the page, not taking your eyes off the smudged words, but remind, "The others won't be back for another hour. Lay with me." You can feel the sigh from Arthur's chest, one of only slight annoyance, but he doesn't move to finish getting up.
An unknowing smile tugs on the corner of your mouth, and internally, you know you've got him. He's quiet for another moment, but then murmurs, "Don't want you gettin' cold, darlin'."
This gets your attention, and your gaze falters from your reading. You fold the top corner of the page you are on, settling the book onto your lap. Carefully, you turn over one shoulder, leaning into the rough digits of Arthur's fingers toying with the skin on your chest.
"I'll be warmer if you stay where you are," you tease lightly, rolling over onto your stomach. Your fingers naturally splay across his chest, forcing the cowboy back down into the comfort of his cot.
He slides his hand from your neck up to cup your cheek, brushing a piece of hair out of your face as he watches you. A sigh falls from his lips as his eyes flutter to half-lidded, "You've made me soft."
An ungraceful snort slips out before you can stop it, your eyes shutting with playful humor as you lean into the roughness of his palm. You take a breath before replying, "You were already soft, Arthur. I just give you a reason to show it."
Arthur raises an eyebrow at you, an unimpressive look washing over his face as he pulls you closer to him. You giggle lightly as your nose bumps into his, your own (colored) gaze snapping shut.
The two of you pause. There are birds chirping in the trees surrounding the camp, a soft breeze rustling the grasses and making them whistle. There's an occasional spit or pop from the flames not so far away.
Otherwise, it's quiet.
Your breathing slows ever so slightly, matching the languid pace of Arthur's underneath you. If you try hard enough, you can feel the rhythmic beating of his heart under your fingertips.
Then, his hand cupping your cheek is pulling you closer, tilting your head off to the side. His mouth lands on yours at a sluggish pace, but it's enough to draw the breath from your lungs.
He tastes ever so slightly of whiskey, the flask forgotten somewhere in the tall grass near his cot. He smells of campfire smoke, the combination of your senses drowning out the rest of the world.
You hum lightly into his mouth as your lips chase after his, fueling the kiss with more passion. Arthur forces you to keep it slow, his hand wrapped around your waist sliding up the back of your dress to rub circles on your spine.
The feeling of his hands on you makes your mouth part a few millimeters, and he takes the chance to slip his tongue into your mouth. An appreciative groan curls up the back of your throat, and you lean into him with more emphasis.
Arthur is quick to pull back at the sound of your voice, and he teases, "Not so loud, darlin'. They might not be back for another hour, but they might hear you."
You gasp in mock annoyance as you swat him in the chest, scolding, "Arthur Morgan, you dirty dog!" He just chuckles as he pulls you back into him, a smile on his face when his mouth captures yours for another searing kiss.
ellievsbear
izzy806
origamiaround
vaporwave
amandla
