RDR Events

[rdrevents]

RDR Events

Howdi RDR fans and content creators! @rdrevents is a community blog which hosts and facilitates Red Dead Redemption themed activities and events throughout the year.

Our activities range from themed prompts to art and fanfic exchanges, including our annual Secret Winter Exchange. For more information you can check out the links below! Blog Links

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[rdrevents]

Hello! Will there be any 2026 promots?

Howdy! If you mean events - we sure hope so! There's currently a shift in the mods so we haven't worked out a schedule for events for this year but we'd love to host something again.

~ RDR Events Team

[rdrevents]

Howdy everyone!

We love to see all your wondeful creations so far!

Giftees: if your gifter hasn't been in touch and you have not received your gift by now, please get in touch either via email or tumblr and we'll follow this up.

Happy holidays!

~ RDRevents

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

Jack Frost Nipping...(RDR Secret Santa 2025)

Summary: Arthur takes you out for some Christmas fun time!

Warnings: Nothing but fluff, with some suggestiveness sprinkled in

Word Count: 1,917

A/N: My @rdrevents contribution! This one goes out to @pinescent-and-gingerbread! Who requested some holiday themed outings for Arthur and reader. I apologize there was a slight delay in posting, I worked 8 days in a row and Christmas Eve is actually my boyfriend and I's anniversary, so safe to say I was ridiculously busy this week, but I hope you enjoy!!

The soft melody of Christmas music drifted through the living room, into the kitchen where you stared into the confines of your pantry, brow furrowed, trying to figure out what you were craving. 

Could it be soup? Could it be a greasy and salty snack? Perhaps a chocolate bar? Hell, you could just call it a day and order pizza, but even the thought of gooey cheesy goodness wasn’t even piquing your interest. 

The sound of the front door opening and closing caught your attention, and you turned just in time to see the 6-foot absolute hunk walk through the threshold of the kitchen. 

He was bundled up; a large blue jacket and a scarf wrapped around the bottom portion of his face, topped off with a warm black ski hat. There was a fine dusting of fresh snow along his shoulders and clung to his boots. Those bright blue eyes connected with yours, bringing a smile to your face. 

“Hey darlin’,” he greeted, his partially muffled voice uncovered once he pulled the scarf free. 

“Hey yourself,” you responded, bounding toward him. Arthur embraced you in one fell swoop, holding you tight. Despite the coldness clinging to his coat and the snow rapidly melting into your sweater and yoga pants, you didn’t care. 

He placed a quick kiss on your cheek, and then a second, lingering one on your mouth. Warm lips caressed yours for what felt like far too shortly before he pulled away. “What’re you up to?” he asked softly. 

“Oh,” you sighed with fake exasperation as you leaned back, nodding your head to the still open pantry door. “I’m hungry, but I don’t know for what.” 

A thoughtful look crossed Arthur’s face. He then reached over and shut the door, before turning his attention back to you with a smile. “I got an idea,” he mused. 

“If you’re gonna tell me that I can eat what’s in your pants—” you started. 

He cut you off with a hearty chortle. “Naw, darlin’. I was gonna suggest we go out.” 

“Out where?” you asked. 

“Well...” he pulled his phone from his coat pocket, the screen lighting up in seconds. He tapped and scrolled for a moment before turning the phone to you. Upon the screen was a FaceBook event, a winter fest complete with Christmas lights, ice skating, and something about yummy food including hot chocolate. 

And your indecisive stomach growled immediately upon reading those two words. 

Glancing outside, you noted the snowfall was steady. It’d been going for a little bit now, starting just as you were leaving work to cover the ground in a fine powder. It had to be a good inch or two now. 

Not that you had a problem venturing in the snow; Arthur’s old Chevy could handle it. But you fully intended to curl up on your couch, bundled in a blanket and watching cheesy Hallmark movies for the start of the weekend. 

“It ain’t so bad outside if you’re worried about that,” Arthur assured you. “C’mon sweetheart, it’s a Friday. Let’s enjoy it!” 

The enthusiasm in his voice pulled a smile to your lips. “Alright, lemme grab my coat and boots then.” 

—- 

Ten minutes later, you and Arthur were seated in the cab of the truck, slowly making way through the fresh snowfall. The flakes were significantly smaller than before, signaling the silent storm was drawing to an end. Thankfully, last thing you wanted to do was spend your morning digging your car out. 

Another few minutes of cautious driving and it was apparent that you two weren’t the only ones eager for this event. Once the suburbs gave way to streets lined with stores and restaurants, many cars were pulling in and finding parking spots. With the steadily darkening sky, brick buildings were brightly adorned with string lights. Wreaths and garland hung from glowing streetlamps. Display candy canes, reindeer, snowmen and Santas scattered in various sizes and various spots. 

Arthur pulled into a parking lot behind a strip of buildings; a feat that proved a little difficult with the amount of traffic. Though you didn’t mind, stepping out into the cold and the gently falling snowflakes once again. 

The fest was happening toward the center of town, where the local pond had been frozen over and cleared for ice skating. The town had also erected multiple decorations and displays surrounding the water, all of which shone beautifully against the ice. Upon seeing your delight in the amazing display, Arthur suggested ice skating first. Walking along the cleared sidewalks, it was apparent that others had the same idea. There was a booth for ice skate rentals with a quickly lengthening line that you didn’t hesitate to join. 

It took around fifteen minutes before you and Arthur were laced up in the skates. They were stiff and awkward, and every step you took was wobbly. Ice skating was something you enjoyed in your younger days, but also something you hadn’t done since then. Arthur on the other hand, had never tried. 

“I don’t know how hockey players do this,” he grumbled as he inched toward the frozen lake shore, arms out for balance as his large frame swayed dangerously. 

You smiled, having gotten your balance after a few seconds. “How about figure skaters?” You said, just a few feet ahead of him. 

“They ain’t human, it’s gotta be witchcraft,” he responded, blades just a hair away from the ice.  

You snorted, stepping from the crunchy snow onto the smooth ice, gliding just a few feet before turning to face him. It was a stiff maneuver, but your balance didn’t waver. “One foot at a time.” 

Arthur’s eyes met yours for a second before sliding down to the ice. Carefully he placed one foot down, then the other. He slid forward slowly, his torso teetering and arms out. It was a long moment of struggling for balance until he finally seemed to even himself out, though hunched over like an old man. 

“Feel comfortable?” You asked. 

Slowly Arthur straightened, the movement reminding you of an infant taking its first steps. “Not exactly,” he admitted, but offered you a slight grin. “Ain’t like ridin’ a horse.” 

You laughed at that. “Not quite,” you reached to grab his hand, and glanced out at the expanse of the pond. It was busy but not crowded to the point where paths would cross with interruption. Reaching for his hand, you laced his fingers with yours. “Nice and slow.” 

He nodded, and you began the smooth glide further out. All the while, Arthur’s grip tightened as he stayed slightly behind you. At first he was fighting hard not to use you for balance, but after a few minutes he managed to achieve a glide of his own. Together you made a slow lap around the pond, enjoying the beautiful lights and the now gentle flurry.  

After one lap, it didn’t take long for Arthur to gain more confidence. “This ain’t so bad now,” he said, having crept up to your side after a little bit, no longer holding your hand. He stood up straight, no longer trying to hunch like an old man. 

You smiled at him. “I’d say you’re halfway to becoming a hockey player,” you joked. 

That earned a hearty, “Ha!” Arthur grinned. “Maybe, in ten more years.” 

A giggle left your lips, and you swerved a bit, lifting your non-weight bearing foot a few inches in the air. “Look, I’m basically a figure skater!” 

A wide smile formed on his face. “Prettiest damn figure skater I ever seen.” 

Attempting another swerve, you ended up facing him, wiggling your hips to skate backwards. “Why thank you!” 

The smile turned into a look of surprise. “How’re you doin’ that?” he asked, eyes flicking between your feet to your face. 

You laughed then, turning back around to resume your pace beside him. “Witchcraft.” 

Arthur snorted. With a confident stride he skated just a little ahead of you, to which you watched with a smile on your face. It didn’t last long however, when a speedy little kid crossed into his path. Arthur leaned back in surprise, which did nothing to help. His arms pinwheeled for what seemed like the shortest and longest second ever as your handsome cowboy toppled over backwards, a shout ending in a grunt as he landed back first onto the thick ice. 

And that little kid skated off like nothing happened. 

Slightly amused by the cartoon-like stumble but also worried about his wellbeing, you crept closer as he just lay there pitifully, arms sprawled and staring up. 

“Are you alright?” You asked, trying to hold back a giggle. 

Arthur took a breath and raised one hand in a halfhearted wave. “Yeah,” he grunted, slowly sitting back up. He rubbed his lower back with a grimace on his face. “Glad I got a little padding.” 

The giggle you were holding back turned into a snort. “There goes your hockey career!” 

There was no answer, only an eye roll that could’ve made a teenager proud. 

After getting Arthur back to his feet and a few minutes of nursing wounded pride, a half hour passed before the two of you agreed to move back on to solid land. By then it was apparent the sun had set; the town now bathed in the golden glow. 

Arthur tried to pretend he wasn’t as sore as he was, but the stiff gait told you otherwise. Still, he continued without complaint 

The hunger that was momentarily forgotten came back full force when a café came into your sights, the scent of chocolate wafting through the wintery air each time the door opened. You and Arthur squeezed in to find it relatively packed, though that didn’t deter you. The promise of hot coco was enough to keep you on the line. 

Though surprisingly, it didn’t take very long before it was your turn. After ordering two cups of hot coco topped with whipped cream and marshmallows, you made your way to a corner of the café next to the front windows. 

The first sip was heavenly. Perfectly heated, thick and sweet, mixed with the fluffiness of the whipped cream. You sighed in satisfaction after you swallowed, and your stomach thanked you. “This is some good hot chocolate.” 

Arthur followed suit, taking a gulp of his own. “Perfect,” he murmured. 

The two of you fell into a comfortable silence, the ambience reflecting the mood. The background chatter, the occasional sound of the door chime, all while you kept glancing out the window at the flurries, the steady line of passerbys, and further out, the magnificent display of the pond. 

So much better than your original plans. 

“Enjoyin’ yourself?” Arthur asked, stirring you from your thoughts. 

You met his gaze with a grin. “Absolutely, thank you Arthur.” 

“No need, sweetheart. Jus’ happy to see you happy,” he said while shifting in his seat, and the wince that accompanied it didn’t pass you by. 

“Hurting?” You asked, grasping your coco cup in both hands and taking a sip. 

Arthur’s lashes lowered as he peered sheepishly into his own cup before taking a sip himself. “Ain’t nothin’ I can’t heal from,” he said with a nonchalant shrug, but you knew the embarrassment still lingered. 

With another sip, you offered him a coy smile over the lid of your mug. “Hot shower when we get home?” 

Those gorgeous blue eyes lifted to meet yours, bright with a heated gaze. “Won’t say no to that.” 

[sillysiiwii]

scaryboyfriendstuff

Hi! Merry Christmas Twola!

This is my first time participating in a gift exchange! I hope you like it!!

18+ Warning!! Smut!!

@twola @rdrevents

The first thing you notice is the silence.

Not the peaceful, warm Christmas silence that makes you relaxed, but rather the kind that presses against your ears until you’re suddenly aware of every breath you take, every step you make, and who's around you. Saint Denis had always been beautiful; every season and holiday got their appreciation from the masses. Christmas, more so than the others, as expected. Despite the bustling city, venturing further out, past the bridge, and slowly into the swamp, it was always quiet at night, but this time it felt wrong. Heavy. Like the air itself was holding still, waiting.

You tighten your grip around your presents and Arthur's winter jacket that he had given you. He told you it'd do you more good than him, and he already had one. You would've believed him had he not slightly fumbled his words and given you such a loving gaze while he explained. Thinking back on this memory slightly distracted you as you kept walking, now calling out for your horse.

However, there was no reply yet. You did leave your horse a little further than you'd like, since the law was always on high alert this time of year due to the influx of people. Arthur had told you not to come alone. That, unfortunately, was the problem. You hadn’t planned to be alone. The shopping time had been planned for early evening, a neutral ground that was public enough. But the public had turned into a quiet swamp, and early evening had slipped into night while you walked.

Arthur had been tense all day. Quiet in that way that meant something was wrong, but he wasn’t ready to say it out loud. He’d kissed your forehead before leaving, hands warm and steady on your shoulders.

Stay home, he’d said.

You hadn’t listened.

A mistake, you realize, when footsteps echo behind you. They’re slow and deliberate; they weren't trying to hide. You stopped, you knew how to fight, and you knew how to swim. You felt around for your gun, mentally cursing when you realized you had left it on your horse, but you still had your knife, now in hand. Then, the footsteps stop too. Your pulse thunders in your ears.

“Well,” a voice says pleasantly from the darkness, “you don’t look like you belong out here.”

You turn. Three men step into the glow of a flickering streetlight. They’re dressed casually like drunkards. Relaxed in the way people are when they know they have the upper hand. Your stomach drops.

“I’m just leaving,” you say, forcing calm into your voice.

One of them smiles, wide and humorless. “Funny. We were just about to ask you something.”

You don’t respond.

Another man tilts his head, studying you. “You here alone?”

You hesitate.

That’s all it takes.

The first man chuckles. “So… where’s your scary boyfriend?”

Your heart stutters, wishing he were there.

You lift your chin. “Probably off doing scary boyfriend things.”

The men laugh.

“Yeah?” the third one says. “Because from where I’m standing, he’s not here.”

"Because I'm here." Arthur's deep, rough voice cuts through the tension as his fists collide with one of their heads. The man was knocked unconscious, and the two others staggered away, one ready to fight, the other ready to run, picking up his friend.

"And I assure you, either of you, if you want to live, do not test me. That is my woman you were talking to." That was all it took to bring them back down.

He then faces you, a stern look on his face, like he was about to tell you off.

"And you, miss, what were you thinking?" He closed the distance, now looking down at you. "To be out here, at this hour?" He was now in your face.

"Thank God I found ya'. That Sadie told me where ya went runnin' off to."

You had your back to the wall of the bridge. Gaze low, heat rushing to your cheeks. Fingers twiddling with your bag.

He grabbed your face, moving it to look up at him. He tutted.

"What am I goin' to do with you?" He asked himself.

"I just wanted to get everyone something for Christmas! I was fine, see, my horse was close, and I had my knife." You explained, trying to gesture to everything.

"I know you know how to fight, sweetheart, that just doesn't stop a man from gaining some grey hairs in the process." He smiled and gave you a kiss.

"I think you need to be punished, that wasn't a very nice thing ya did, ya didn't listen to me. D'ya wanna be on the naughty list, sweetheart?" His voice dropped, and his accent grew thicker. Your thighs instinctively pressed together as you knew where this was going.

"No, sir. I'm nice. I want to be on the nice list."

"Atta girl, you'll haveta work for it."

____

He loved this. The look of pure bliss and pleasure that was painted on your features. It was perfect, he thought, the greatest gift he could ask for as he watched you closely. Arthur steadily started bucking back into you. You whined at the feeling. You were still very sensitive from your previous orgasm, but right now you were focused on getting Arthur off.

"Cmon, girl, I know you can handle it, this is a punishment after all." He said, hand wrapping around your throat as you continue to ride him while he fucked into you. You came more times than you can remember. He shamelessly stared at you, eyes clouded with raw passion, reaching up to kiss everywhere his mouth could reach. His mind could only focus on you. The way your breasts bounced with every thrust of his hips, your sexy moans, the feeling of your tight cunt squeezing like a vice.

You bit your lip, and you tried your best not to be super loud as he pounded into you. However, whimpers still escaped, and he loved it. It was so good. You knew you would have lasting bruises and a sore ache that would be on your mind tomorrow.

"You love your scary boyfriend, huh?" He let out a low chuckle. You nodded and smiled shyly.

"My boyfriend treats me nicely but fucks me meanly." You managed to mewl out.

You placed your palms flat against his chest, using him for support.

"He sounds like quite the gentleman."

"He sure is."

He stretched you so well, your walls already white from his previous orgasms. The sight of him, sex-drunk below you, kept you horny and needy. Arthur was away for days at a time, hunting for the camp, doing whatever anyone asked him to do, trying to keep the camp afloat in this harsh winter. You wanted to appreciate him badly, it was so sexy how manly and reliable your man was. Your slick and his cum coated his cock, creating a ring of white at his base. Your clit was swollen and aching, begging for more. You rolled your hips against his, and you could tell Arthur was trying not to cum into you.

“Shit, you’re still so tight.” He moved his hands to grab a fistful of hair from the back of your neck to pull you in to a heated kiss, focusing on trying not to cum again.

“Arthur.” You mewled as you pressed your hips down flush with his, feeling the friction on your clit, and had your eyes rolled back.

Arthur's free hand dropped to play with your clit, pressing circles into you,

“Fuck me, Arthur.” You pleaded, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“How bad d'ya want it?”

He wanted you to tell him how good he made you feel. That you want and need him. That you only want and need him.

“I need it, Arthur.” You whined. “I need your cum, please give it to me. Please cum in me one more time. I'm good, please, please.”

He smiled and kissed you deeply once again. He finally wrapped his arms around your shoulders, held you close, and fucked you.

“Arthur!”

“Takin’ my cock so well, huh, girl?” He groaned and bit your shoulder.

“Yes, wanna be good for you!”

His thumb on your clit made your eyes roll all the way back as you cum again, clamping down onto him.

“F-fuck.” A long growl was let out.

“You gunna cum for me, cowboy?”

He moaned at your sweet voice and dirty words. His cock pulsing inside you, signaling for his next orgasm. His whole body tensed, holding onto you tightly and closely. Arthur thrusted his hips up into you one last time before spilling every last drop into you. He pulled you in for another kiss, this time a sweet one.

"Congratulations on making the nice list, sweetheart."

[mamasparky]

Here is my secret santa for Sam! @purplecatdad

Sorry it took some time to finish it since it got a little bit away from me. Hope you like it!! (textless version under the cut)

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

❆ Resolutions, New and Old

✦ Pairing: dbf!Arthur x Shy!Fem!Reader ✦ Summary: Your dad has invited his closest friend, the Van der Linde gang, to your home for the Christmas holidays. As you talk about New Year’s resolutions, you have no idea Arthur’s one might be about you… ✦ Warnings/tags: MDNI!! 18+ NSFW, modern AU, size difference, Arthur is a bit drunk and very dom, fingering, p in v, talking you through it, lots of praising, semi public. ✦a/n: Here is my participation for the Rdr Secret Santa Exchange hosted by the @rdrevents team! I used the prompts dbf!Arthur and size difference (also this is a neutral version to respect my gift receptor's privacy!) ✦ Words: 3,6k Arthur's pic belongs to @/yohanscamera on Pinterest.

The family cottage is filled with laughter and excitement tonight. Your father, James, in one of his rare but intense moments of sociability, has invited most of your family and his close friends over for the holidays. A motley crew of colorful characters with whom he had gotten up to all sorts of mischief in his youth. As if to complete this beautiful picture, the snow outside is thicker and more magical than ever, transforming the landscape into a movie set where frost covers everything with its silvery sparkle.

Although generally shy, you like those moments. Catching up with your favorite people, cracking up jokes, enjoying a good winter dinner, playing board games, just talking about anything.

The smell of a turkey baking in the oven. The taste of eggnog. It is simple, but it is good.

Although there is, you have to admit, one of those simple things that made your heart feel a little tighter. And it could be summoned in the person of Arthur, previously your father's partner in crime, now a settled and pretty talented horse farmer.

Of all the men here tonight, he is definitely the one you spent the most time with growing up. He was one of the few person who could wear cowboy boots and hat without looking ridiculous—quite the opposite, in fact. With his work jeans, thick rodeo belts, flannel shirts, and denim jackets, he had the honest, straightforward charm of a farmhand.

You two haven't spoken much, but you swear you had caught him throwing glances at you from the other side of the table. You hope he didn't catch the way your cheeks had turned red instantly.

As the bottles empty, faces flush and tongues loosen. A particularly drunk Sean is now leading the conversation, asking everyone about their New Year's resolutions. You listen intently to Arthur's answer. Something about learning how to paint and stopping getting heartbroken. His voice warms your chest. The azure of his eyes. His deep laugh when everyone teased him about his words. His beauty was matched only by his unattainability.

You're dragged out of your reverie by your father asking about your own goals for the year; you mumble something banal about getting healthier and maybe quitting smoking. But to your surprise, he burst into a storm of reproaches. A mix of “What do you mean, you kept smoking?” and “I knew your college years would be difficult to manage.” You sigh internally and as always, take it without making a fuss. What was the point of talking to a brick wall anyway? It wasn't that your father had ever been mean to you—he was actually a pretty good man— but he could be so stubborn sometimes!

The breath of fresh air outside does you good. You've taken refuge for a few moments in the woodshed behind the main cottage, just to catch your breath. Family gatherings are great, but sometimes they can be a little... too much. You can still hear the distant sounds of the party inside, but the snow falling around you and coming in through the cracks in the floorboards seems to have a soothing effect, making you feel like you're in a little cocoon. You could have stayed there longer if only it hadn't been so cold that your teeth were chattering.

Nothing a quick cigarette can't fix... After all, it's not January 1st yet.

Just as you were about to put it in your mouth, the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow stops you.

You hear his voice first, before recognizing him in the dim light.

"Hey girl."

Arthur is standing in the doorway frame of the shed. A big denim jacket tops his flannel and frames his shoulders, which look even more gigantic than before. The cigarette hangs in the air like time had stopped and fixed it there.

"H-hey, Arthur." You let out with an indelible smile curling up your lips. Shit, your voice sounds so shaky. Your gaze falls on the ground, his mere presence so close to you, turning your body into a mess of sweat and tickles and weak limbs.

He, on the other hand, looks as steady as ever. His gaze is stuck on you, not wavering for even a second. It's so intense you could melt right there and join the mushy snow under your boots. You can't believe you're actually alone with him, outside the house, away from everyone. The occasions it has happened can be counted on one hand. Oh, how you had desired and still, crave that man. Your dad's dearest friend. Your throat stiffens, guilt strangling it.

But really, who could have resisted him, right?

"Your ol'man needed some wood. Fire's dyin' in the living room."He leans closer, stretching out an arm against the icy wall. His voice. His damn voice, rich and husky, like the most flavorful of whiskies. You don't move, unable to, your feet like they're frozen in ice. You wait for him to pick up some logs, but a small silence settles. He breaks it with a move of his chin. "Want me to light it for ya?"

"I… I shouldn't be smoking, you know it." You admit with a hint of shame. Your words float in little puffs of condensation into the air. That's the only moment his pupils leave you to study it. "Shouldn't you be lecturing me right now?" You tentatively throw at him with a nervous giggle.

He hums, eyes half lidded, still focused on the shapes of your breath in the cold, soon fading in abstracted plumes. Then, right back at you, his handsome, rugged face lit up by a smirk. That cocky, irresistible smirk that makes the wrinkles around his eyebrows more prominent and stretches his short beard, revealing a little more of the two scars on his chin, remnants of that past as a delinquent that in reality, you knew nothing about.

"Ya know James 's just tryin' to protect ya, right?" You notice the red on his sun-kissed cheeks. You're not sure if it's from the coldness or the mulled wine your mother always made too strong. Yes, the wine. It's the only explanation for what's happening right now. He shifts slightly, wood creaking under his weight. "But I trust ya to be adult enough and do your own choices, sugar."

That's when you realize he's very close. Way closer than you two had ever been in normal circumstances. Your breath is making your chest rise up and down faster and faster, as if to compensate for your pathetic inability to move your legs. This time, it's his own breath that swirls and twirls in the air before reaching you and warming your neck gently. Fuck, you can't lie to yourself —you want him so bad. You want everything he embodies. Lust, love, rebellion, freedom, security.

His free hand moves up to join yours, aiming for the cigarette. His fingers, unexpectedly hot, warm yours instantly. He's wearing his black leather mittens. Coarse and hard —his skin brushing against yours, like velvet meeting graphite. You let out a very small, almost imperceptible sigh at the sensation. His eyebrows rise up just for a split second before returning to their usual hard and piercing gaze.

You're mortified. What must he think of you right now? He's right there, showing you some kind of romantic interest for the first time in your life, and you're screwing things up.

But he doesn't say anything about it. He's still smirking slightly, maybe even more than before.

Your heart, on the other hand, is singing all the Christmas carols at once.

He gently takes the cigarette from your hands and brings it to his lips. With an expert hand, in a movement repeated millions of times, he takes a Zippo lighter out of his jeans pocket and lights the tobacco with a click, which burns on contact with the flickering flame. His other arm has remained against the wall throughout the entire maneuver. It's hypnotizing, this crimson flammeus bubble of warmth, in the middle of all that white of snow and ice. Yellow and gold dancing on his face.

Lips tight, he slowly closes his eyes and takes a long drag. He blows it through his nose, and you can almost feel how much good the burning smoke is bringing him through the cold. When he opens a half-lidded gaze and whispers, you have to hold onto the wall not to pass out on the spot,

"Ya know what? You shouldn't be smokin', that's right. Your ol' man would be pissed right now if he catches you right after that fight." His face is only inches away from yours now. His body warms yours without even touching it, like a fire burning through your soul. "But… I guess… I could help ya get a taste of that poison."

You don't answer right away, too stunned, your head exploding with thoughts of what he's implying. As they fly at the speed of sound and collide with the force of meteors, your body finally takes over and acts before you can sort through the stellar debris of your reasoning's conclusions. With unassured hands, you reach for his torso. The fabric of his flannel is soft, but the fur inside his jacket, out of this world. The subtle sound of snow and wind envelops you in an intimate world of solitude.

That's only then that you realise he's actually waiting for an answer. He's towering over you, the top of your head barely reaching his chin. Those two blue diamonds stare at you without any embarrassment, quickly shifting from one eye to the other. He's unmoving, steady as a rock would be in a blizzard. You summon all the courage that is still with you, knees almost shaking, and murmur back, words that you wish would be forgotten in the morning, "Yes, d-do it."

Arthur exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding back, and just a second later, his mouth is tasting yours. His gigantic body pushes yours against the freezing wooden wall, an almost hurtful contrast with the fire that's burning your skin. Your hands are freely running around his waist to take refuge behind his back, the fluffy coat pleasantly covering them. The cigarette joins the snowflakes as it falls to your feet.

You can feel his hips pressing against yours, your thighs opening slightly on their own, eager to feel the hard line of his jeans-covered crotch against your core. He slowly rubs himself against it, and a slight grunt escapes his throat. You can't hide the desperate little whimper it drags out of you.

"Arthur, we can't…" His hands discover your curves. "There are people inside!" His fingers grab your ass. "My dad!"

"I know, I know darlin'," He hushes you in a reassuring voice. "We won't take long jus' — lemme take care of ya."

Completely blinded by your saturated senses and the incessant messages your body is sending to your brain, you succumb to his greedy arms, surprising yourself at actually enjoying the situation. The fact that your whole family was inside, so unaware, so blindly in the bliss of the party, while Arthur is doing filth to you, is so arousing you should be ashamed of yourself.

You indulge in this sin, exploring him through his clothes, muscles hard and strong. He smiles to himself, before mumbling again, getting closer and closer to the inside of your legs, "I knew you had that fire inside of ya, princess."

And his hand cups you completely. This time, you cry out a real, genuine moan, instantly covering your mouth, crushed by shame.

But your body sighs of relief. The pressure isn't enough, though, and you suspect he knows it very well. How many girls has he been with during his life? With that face and body, that bad boy with a big heart charm, probably many. His fingers begin to wrap around your jeans, terribly slowly, too slowly, opening your jeans with unexpected delicacy. Bending his arm to reach the object of his desire, his fingertips finally slip under your panties and settle on your clit, applying the perfect pressure you desperately needed. You moean in return, almost wanting to thank him for it.

"That feels good?" He looks down at you, not leaving a single detail escape him. You don't answer. "Use your words, darlin'."

"That- that feels good, Arthur."

"Good girl…" He praises, his deep, resonant voice giving you even more goosebumps than the cold.

He starts rubbing circles on this pearl of nerve with the precision of a fucking professional sniper.

He starts slow, at first, but gradually gets faster, building your arousal, then giving it what it wants, again and again, playing with your body to get the exact reactions he desires. You're no better than one of the mares he's taming. The blush on your face had spread everywhere now, on your ears and your chest, and you're unable to form other words than his name, babbled in desperation, much to his delight.

You're downright wetting your panties now. The feeling of wet and cold isn't actually pleasing, but you don't care for now. His index and middle fingers have found your entrance, teasing it before sliding slowly inside. Just one, then the other, waiting for you to adjust yourself both times. You feel so full already, his digits so thick and hard from his lifetime of holding reins and hard work.

"Fuck yes! Oh, Arthur!" Your thoughts are cut straight by his thumb pressing hard on your clit at the same time. He's basically handling you with just one hand of his right now.

"Damn girl, I didn't know ya could swear at all!" He laughs in disbelief, his grin cocky as ever. "What happened to my dad will hear us and all?" He teases, before curling his fingertips deliciously inside of you in one quick move.

You're unable to answer. You bury your head inside his chest, desperately trying to cover the sound you're unable to hide, whimpering against his flannel. His scent overflows your nostrils, a cocktail of smoke, hay, and strong sweat.

"D'ya want me whole, princess?" His tone is more urgent now, challenging. "D'ya think you can handle me?"

"Ye-yes, please Arthur!"

"Yes, what?"

"Yes-I w-want all of you! Oh God, please!"

Arthur uses his free arm to lift you up, back against the wall, holding you firmly under your ass. He retrieves his divine fingers from you, winning a groan of protest, which makes him snicker delicisouly gravelly. There's not a single trace of pain or fatigue on him. What even are the limits of this man? Using his now free hand, he quickly unbuckles his huge rodeo belt and unzips his jeans, just enough to fish his gorging cock out. You see his eyebrows crunch, probably due to the coldness he just exposed himself to. He can't wait to bury himself in the warmth of your cunt.

Your legs around his waist, he's almost engulfing you entirely, your petite body still not compensating for his height, even with the way he's holding you. And you're glad he does, because he's literally shielding you from the cold and the snowflakes surrounding you, some white pearls gently settling on the sides of his golden hair. Guiding himself with one hand, he pushes in your pussy, his cockhead feeling even better than his fingers, every inch stretching you a bit more until he's entirely settled inside. This time, even he can't suppress a groan of pleasure from crossing his lips.

"Damn, you're so good, sweetheart."

"A-Arthur, please, move!" You almost beg him, needing him to lead you to your edge so badly now.

He happily executes, not without sighing at the way your voice sounds saying those words. Just like before, he starts rocking his hips in a steady but slow pace, taking all his time to drag himself out of your pussy before thrusting back aaaall the way in. Wet noises start mixing with the night sounds, his spurs jiggling rhythmically every time he pushes into you.

"That's - it, that's - a - sweet - girl now..." He praises between thrusts, "Jesus, if your dad could see us now -Oh- God I'd be a dead man."

It doesn't seem to stop him, though —all the contrary, as he fucks you deep and proper, so fast and stable you feel like you're about to burst. The hand holding you grabs one of your asscheeks firmly. Another wave of pleasure that rushes into you. How many can he pull out of you? He is like a virtuoso playing his favorite instrument.

"Now baby girl, I want ya to let go for me."

"But I'm…. we're…" You stutter, chest tight again.

"Hush now. I'm here, I'm holding ya." He places a tender (too tender) kiss on the top of your head. "Relax, let yourself go darlin'. Stop thinking about them inside, about being good, or doin' things right. You just focus on ma voice now."

You want to protest, but he locks his lips with yours. This kiss, oh this kiss is different. It's desperate and untamed and uncontrolled, guided by his want as much as yours. His free hand cups the side of your face, warm, comforting, almost homey. Grounding. His hips don't stop one bit, and you start to feel it coming, that familiar burst of pleasure inside your belly, spreading everywhere in your pussy and through your legs. His cock doesn't flatter or slow, he wants you to have it all until the very end. He parts his greedy mouth from yours,

"Thaaat's it darlin', come on, you're doing so great." His rasped, pleasure-filled words are like a delicious nectar that unties every knot in your body, tension, fear, muscles, everything. "Let it go for me."

Just like the very first second he had touched you, your body obeys him. There's no resistance anymore, only bliss. Pure bliss, perfect bliss, as immaculate and pure as the white snow that rages around your two beings; ivorine. Your walls clench around his cock, a deep moan erupts from his throat before he praises you for it:

"Ahh, yeah, just like that baby, you're so close now- com'on, come for me."

Your back arching against the wall, his hips meeting yours and staying there, his cock, hard and huge, rocking through your orgasm, his hands holding you tight, his scents the only thing your breath, your eyes closing and his praises filling your ears; it's so much. You feel full, in every way possible, every sense of yours saturated by him. "Fuck, that's it, that's it…" He keeps on whispering gently as he chases every single drop of pleasure he can give to you, feeling your body softening like mush under him, your whimper hitting the sweetest highest note he has heard you scream. "There you go. Such a good girl."

It's only when he's sure you're completely satisfied that he removes himself from you. The sensation of cold that replaces him is instantaneous and hits you like a punch. He gently puts you down, your legs threatening to abandon you. Barely able to think straight, you register his twitching, begging shaft through your fever, and without second thoughts, grab it.

"Damn, girl!" He exclaims a bit too loudly for your liking, clearly not expecting that. Your small, inexperienced hand isn't doing the job he desperately needs to right now after fingering and fucking you, restraining himself so painfully not to cum inside. He add one of his own gloved hands around yours, helping you holding his member just right, jerking it just like he craves it. You caress his hair gently, and your eyes crosses his, and he just can't handle it, he comes quickly, too quickly after only a few proper rubbs.

Maybe, even all mighty he seems to be, he's only just a man, like every other. His cum spurts out on your intertwined hands and joins the white of the snow. Panting, face contracted by his own pleasure and surrounded by small crystals of ice, he looks so incredibly good you can't help but put a delicate kiss on his cheek.

You both only have the time to put your clothes back on correctly and share an intimate, amused gaze as a figure bursts into the shed.

"Arthur, [Name]! For God sake, we've been searching for you!" John Marston basically screams at you, before staring at both of you. "What were you doin'?"

"John, -erm- we was… I was jus' talking her out of smoking. " Arthur instantly lies, pointing at the cigarette abandoned on the floor. "Cheeky girl was there hidin' and trying t'burn her lungs again."

The explanations seem to hit the mark as John doesn't ask any more questions and joins Arthur in a disapproving speech. Though you see in the oldest man's eyes a relief and an entertainment at this whole situation.

Once inside, the warmth hits you as if you had stepped into a sauna.

"Not a word about this until next time," Arthur whispers bluntly in your ears before going to tend to the fire as he was supposed to do in the first place.

Next time? Your aching legs and cunt shudder again at these words. You keep staring at him even when you go back to your place at the table, thinking about him, about his taste, how he felt inside of you. About everything you had wished for finally coming true. You smile to yourself, deciding to continue smoking if it could bring him back to you again.

Here it is, another New Year's resolution smashed to dust before January even started. Little did you know, Arthur was in the exact same situation. Because inside, he had promised himself he wouldn't fall for those beautiful eyes of yours. Promised he wouldn't fantasize about his best friend's sweet girl. About having her all to himself. But it had been too late the moment he had plunged into them and got lost inside their irresistible sparks.

And just like that, Arthur's resolution to stop thinking about you had been buried to the ground long before he could even try to stick to it.

And he was well determine to do the exact opposite again.

a/n: this one's for all the girls who felt too pressured at least once in a family gathering. I got you sisters 💓

This was a real challenge for me because I never write Reader being shy (I always go with a bratty savage one eheh) or dbf!Arthur, and everything that goes with. I really hope you like it!

[twola]

RDR Secret Winter Exchange '25

Here is my part of this year's #RDRSWE, where the prompts used were "Modern" and "Game Time".

Happy Holidays @sad-sweet-cowboah!! I hope you enjoy this as much as I had fun writing it! @rdrevents Modern Arthur x F!Reader MDNI (18+), Smut

The house smells like slow-cooked chili and woodsmoke. Outside, the sky’s gone that dull pewter gray that presses in from all sides, the kind of day that makes staying in feel like the rightest thing in the world.

The candle flickers on the side table — cedar and tobacco, Arthur’s favorite, though he still grumbles that candles are girly. It casts a warm glow that softens the living room. His boots are kicked off by the door. His long legs are stretched out in front of the couch, one ankle resting over the other.

You pad back in from the kitchen, a fresh mug of tea warming your palms. The moment you enter the room, the roar of the football game on the TV greets you: the low, male chorus of announcers, the thud of pads colliding, the rising tension of a close play.

Arthur’s eyes don’t move from the screen.

You watch him for a second, his flannel shirt rumpled just so, one hand absently stroking his beard, the other resting on his thigh. There’s a crease between his brows. His mouth tips down into that frown he gets when he’s concentrating hard. You know him well enough now to know he’s not mad — he’s just in the zone.

You grin to yourself.

Then you flop down onto the couch beside him with all the grace of a sack of flour, letting out a theatrical huff as you land.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.

“Jesus,” you mutter, sipping your tea. “Thought maybe you’d gone catatonic.”

Arthur hums low in his throat. “Third and goal. Can’t talk.”

You glance at the screen. Big men in tight pants are doing... whatever it is big men do in this sport. You’ve been trying to understand football for months now, but honestly… the sport is still mostly a mystery.

You lean into him anyway, curling up against his side. He shifts just enough to let you in, his arm lifting so you can tuck yourself under it. His body is warm — all solid muscle and faint flannel softness, and he smells like soap and chili spice and the lingering trace of sawdust from whatever project he was doing in the garage earlier.

“Is this the team you hate or the team you really hate?” you ask, cheek pressed to his chest.

“Team I hate,” he mutters. “Team I really hate plays later.”

“Mm. Good to know your hatred is organized.”

Arthur grunts. His hand finds your thigh, squeezing absently as he watches the play unfold. 

“Might wanna hush for a sec, sweetheart.”

You snort softly. “Oh, excuse me. Didn’t realize I was interrupting religious observance.”

Another grunt.

Then - an eruption from the TV. The stadium crowd roars, the camera flashes, Arthur tenses under your touch like a man bracing for battle.

“Goddamn idiots,” he growls, leaning forward slightly. “What the hell was that? Zone coverage, my ass. I could’ve read that better blindfolded.”

You sip your tea. “I believe in you, Coach Morgan.”

He cuts you a quick side-eye, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying real hard not to smile.

“You wanna keep talking, or you wanna eat chili later?” he asks, voice gruff.

You pretend to consider. “What kind of chili are we talkin’ here?”

He tilts his head, finally tearing his gaze from the screen. “The good kind. The kind that’s been slow cookin’ all damn day.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He leans in, voice lower. “The kind that’ll warm you all the way down. Even your mean little toes.”

You grin and kick your feet a little, moving those mean little toes in your fuzzy socks. “Sold.”

Arthur chuckles softly, pulling you closer. You curl into him, the game still raging on the TV, the candle flickering beside you, the rich scent of cumin and tomato and beef drifting in from the kitchen.

A quarter goes by. You pretend to pay attention, sipping your tea. After what seems like forever, the game cuts to commercial and you place your now cold cup of tea on the side table. Taking your chance, you swing your leg over his hips, coming to straddle him as he grunts in surprise. 

He looks up at you, questioning, about to open his mouth.

You shift in his lap, pressing down just enough to make him suck in a breath through his teeth. The friction of your leggings against his sweatpants does all sorts of things to both of you.

Arthur's hands clamp tighter on your hips as his brain starts working. “You sure about this?” he mutters, voice thick and low, eyes flicking to the TV like he’s still got a shred of resistance left.

You grind against him slowly — once, deliberately — and watch that resistance utterly crumble.

“Commercial’s still on,” you whisper into his ear. “Better take advantage while we can.”

He huffs a laugh — then you kiss him, deep and hungry.. He groans into your mouth as your fingers slide into his hair, tugging gently.

The TV fades to static noise in your brain. The only sounds now are the wet pull of kisses, his breath catching when your tongue teases his, the shift of fabric as you roll your hips harder over the shape of him.

You can feel him swelling fast beneath you, thick and heavy, straining against soft gray cotton of his pants.

You lean back, keeping your hips grinding slowly as your hands trail down his chest. “How long’s that been there?” you murmur, glancing down meaningfully.

Arthur lifts a brow. “Since you climbed up in here actin’ like you didn’t know what you were doin’.”

You hum. “And now?”

He growls as he grabs the underside of your thighs and pulls you flush against him. “Now I know exactly what you’re doin’,” Then a pained breath, “Don’t stop.”

You don’t.

Instead, you reach between you, palming him through his sweats. His hips jerk just a little, and his head falls back against the couch cushion as he exhales hard.

“Jesus, girl…”

You kiss down his neck, nipping at the spot just under his jaw, the one that always makes him twitch. Then you slip your hand beneath the waistband of his sweats and his underwear and wrap your fingers around him.

Hot. Hard. Already leaking at the tip.

Arthur groans deep in his chest, one hand tangled in your shirt, the other squeezing your ass through the thin stretch of your leggings.

You pump him slowly, teasing, while rocking against him, pressing your heat right where he wants it. His hands start to pull at your waistband, pulling them down and over the swell of your ass.

He grunts whe he discovers that you wear no panties… just the barest barrier of your soft leggings between your skin and his.

“Goddamn,” he pants, forehead tipping to yours. “Commando?”

“Mhm,” you smile. “Thought it would be wearin’ too much..”

He grips your chin and kisses you hard — messy now, all tongue and teeth. He shifts under you, pulling the sweats down just enough for his cock to spring free, flushed and angry red at the head.

You lift your hips, just barely enough to get your leggings shoved down your thighs, the fabric dragging across your soaked folds. You kick them off unceremoniously and return to straddling his now bare pelvis.

He feels it as soon as you drop your hips again.

“Fuck, you’re wet,” he groans.

“For you,” you whisper, aligning him with your entrance. “Only you.”

Then you sink.

He hisses through his teeth, fingers digging into your hips, your thighs — anything he can grab.

“Jesus Christ, darlin’...”

You stretch around him slowly, taking your time, watching his face as you slide all the way down. Your breath hitches when he bottoms out, the delicious pressure making your toes curl.

You brace your hands on his chest and start to move — slow at first, letting him feel every inch, the soft squeeze and drag of your body around him.

Arthur is all hands now — gripping your waist, your thighs, tugging your shirt up so he can get to your tits. He palms one through your bra, then slides his hand under, thumbing over your nipple until you gasp.

You start to ride him harder.

Each bounce drives him deeper, your slick walls gripping him tighter, the lewd sound of skin on skin echoing softly under the hum of the TV.

“Fuck,” he grits. “Look at you… bouncin’ on me like that. You tryin’ to kill me, sweetheart?”

You smirk, breathless. “Not yet.”

He thrusts up to meet you then, rougher, making you cry out. His grip on your hips is bruising now, guiding your rhythm, helping you chase it.

Your clit brushes his pelvis just right each time you come down on him, and you can feel your release building.

“Arthur-”

“I got you,” he growls, hand darting between you and his thumb finding your clit, circling it fast and tight. “C’mon, baby. Let me feel you.”

You shatter with a cry, clutching at his shoulders, body trembling around him. He groans, fucking you through it, chasing his own end now, deeper, harder.

And then he’s coming too, with a strangled moan, buried deep inside you, hips jerking as you both ride the last waves together.

You collapse against his chest, both of you panting, slick and flushed and tangled up on the couch.

The next commercial rolls by, a cartoon bear selling toilet paper.

Arthur snorts softly, stroking your back with one hand. “Missed the whole damn drive.”

You smile against his neck. “Worth it?”

He tilts your chin and kisses you again, slow this time. Warm. 

“I hate this team anyway.”

The rest of the game goes unwatched.

[l0stcaterpillar]

Took part in the RDR Safe Haven's winter exchange for the first time. Got wishes for Charthur, modern times, and the inclusion of horses. Lots of panicking over not getting done on time, but I did and I'm happy with the finished result. Now just to hope @honeyvanity likes it too. :)

@rdrevents

[roamingtigress]

❀~𝚁𝚘𝚜𝚢~❀

A story of growing old and the vulnerabilities that come with it.

"My days of looking good are long over, Dutch."

Done as a @rdrevents Winter Exchange gift for Louie @ @mamasparky!

(Ao3 link)

Rosy

by Roaming Tigress

"Hey, you don't look too rosy, old friend. I thought this warmer weather would — "

A punch to the gut.

"My days of looking good are long over, Dutch."

Dutch means well, I remind myself; he's been worrying over me like a mother hen ever since we arrived in Horseshoe Overlook. I only took on a bit of a cough, that's all; maybe my lungs were still defrosting from Colter. To give him peace of mind, I even considered visiting the local doctor's office in Valentine, thinking they might have had a tonic to remedy it. But . . . A series of events happened there, and well, I instead decided to try to treat it myself with some of the local herbs in the area — yarrow, mint, ginseng, and the like.

The concoction worked to varying degrees, but never truly went away, and maybe I'd just rather not know what is going on with me.

But onto cheerier subjects.

We enjoyed our little fishing trip with Arthur on Flat Iron Lake, and even caught some beauties! We caught some nice bass, lake trout — even a few sturgeon. Arthur certainly *can* fish a bit if he puts his mind to it (and has some distance between himself and a market). And besides a meal for ourselves, it was nice to have a moment with just the Old Guard. There was no disagreement about it from Arthur, and Dutch? Dutch revelled in it.

"Before any of them back there . . . There was us."

We only turned back with our catch when we felt it was just a matter of time until a search party would be sent for us. It was on our way back to camp, though, that a nagging, painful, raw thought crept into my mind that lulled me into a sense of vulnerability.

Was I now . . .

Less attractive to him?

Growing old is hard: the aches, the pains, the insecurities that make you feel exposed and vulnerable. It's a slow, insidious creep. Oh, you think you can outrun it, but it gets you when you're asleep, when you're at the campfire with friends. You hear those names brought up, and you realize it as a lifetime ago when you were still speaking to them.

'Was Dutch going to leave me for someone younger?' was a dreaded question that burrowed into the inner recesses of my brain.

On the slow, steady hack to Clements Point, I considered how to phrase the question. I hadn't wanted to sound accusatory; I wouldn't get anywhere there, he'd just think he was right. And yet, I had to know; I had to be to the point, I had to know where I stood. He might think he could push around the others at camp, but he knows — even stubbornly — that he can't get me to back down.

I would ask Dutch when we were in a quieter place in camp; our personal matters aren't everybody's issues, after all. Every evening, every early morning, he's been taking a liking to standing dramatically — that flamboyant pose of his where he stands with his hands on his hips and looks lordly to all the shorebirds — on the fishing pier or shore as he collected his thoughts; it might be a stretch to say so, but he has a few.

Yes, I would ask him then.

Dutch likes it when I join him there; he doesn't always act like it; sometimes, he'd act as if I interrupted some great train of thought, and maybe I'm right, but a man needs to take a break; every train needs to stop at the station. But his mood doesn't last; cigars are a nice placation, and he never rejects a fresh brew of coffee.

And a telltale twinkle in his eyes tells me I've worked my magic; I've conned him into tolerating my presence!

And then, we're talking about old times, maybe where to move next, or if it was evening, the events of the day.

And maybe, whisper sweet nothings.

And maybe, a kiss.

But let's get back to camp first.

We may have bragged about the big sturgeon that got away. The two we caught were sizable, sure, but we spoke of a legendary beast still lurking along the Lannahachee. A fish so old that it was pure white, and had to be two, no, three hundred years old.

Jack liked the story, and Sean might have been a believer, but that might have been the drink talking. Lenny, Tilly, Charles and John were a little more skeptical. Karen, Molly, and Abigail humoured us. We might have had a little support from Reverend Swanson, though. Susan scolded us, thinking we were a terrible influence on the young boy for telling such tall tales. But Dutch was confident that Jack would be the one who would reel him in.

Good on you, Dutch, for staying your ground, taking a stance against such overreaching dream-crushing.

The stew was considerably better than the turtle-coyote-milkweed-spoonbill concoction the night before, and my stomach was thankful for it.

*****

And then came evening.

And there Dutch was, standing on the dock, cigar held between his index finger and thumb, his free hand on his hip. He's staring off to the islands, with probably not a thought in his head, but giving the impression there was a thousand rattling around in his head.

"Thought I would meet you here," I gently tease.

Dutch let out a snort, tapping the ash from his cigar. It's a particularly richly scented one; I myself am more of a cigarette man, but I can appreciate the scent of a good cigar. Dutch smells of them; I'm disappointed when he washes it out of his hair, his clothing, his body. Eau de Cigar adds a little more to his character, not that he needed help in that area, but it adds a little masculine finesse.

And then he laughed, right from his belly, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that charming way they do. Crow's feet? More like ostrich's feet!

"You're like clockwork, Hosea."

I laughed with him.

He's in a good mood, and a bit of guilt tugged at me for the question that swirled around in my head like a swarm of bees looking for an exit out of their hive. I even felt that tingling of anxiety arise in my gut; it isn't the man and his little tendency towards difficult pigheadedness I fear in the least, but those dreaded what-if's. I needed to know, but my heart told me to forget the matter; it's better not knowing.

I studied him for a moment, watching the slow puff of tobacco smoke form a half circle as he tipped his head back ever so dramatically. Dutch likes to put on a bit of a show when he has an audience, even if it was one man in the seats — or on the dock.

I lowered my head, my eyes cast down on the dock boards. I let out a slow breath, almost absently shuffling a foot.

"Dutch . . . "

Uncertainty and vulnerability crept into my voice too fast for me to catch and release back into the water.

Even if I had, Dutch would have caught it on his line.

When I tipped my head back to look him in the eyes, I could see the softer expression in Dutch's eyes. I was supposed to be his rock, and here I was, before him, acting like some nervous school boy. He tipped his head in that endearing way he does when he's puzzled or concerned or maybe both, and I might have even smiled a little at that.

"Hosea?"

Oh, he had to ask. He just had to ask.

Well, might as well get it over with.

I swallowed, suddenly looking back down at my feet, feeling the sudden welling of tears. I couldn't let him see them. I had to stay strong, to be that rock he needs, even when things have been looking up.

But when I felt a finger on my chin, I knew I was caught.

I offered no resistance as he tipped my chin up so that he could look me in the eye with that same soft expression. It was a rare moment where I let him take the lead, and I swallowed again as he softly — heartachingly softly — wiped a tear from my cheek. He doesn't catch me crying often, but when he does, oh, there's no escaping his tenderness, no matter how fast I try to run.

"What's the matter, Old Girl?"

I gulp hard, suddenly unable to find the words.

"Did you . . . Dream about her again?" He almost whispered; speaking softly is foreign territory for Dutch, but he's capable of it when he puts his mind to it (which is rare).

Bessie. He means Bessie.

As I've been feeling well, not so well, I've been dreaming of her more often. Sometimes we'd be dancing in a field of wildflowers. At other times, it would be her, Annabelle, Dutch, on a picnic by a river. There were dreams of meeting Bess for the first time, in a variety of situations and places; at the theatre, at a train station where I lost my luggage but she took pity and helped set me right, and once, at a beach resort. They were always those kinds of dreams where, when they ended, and you had to wake up and face the realities of the day, you grieved over their closure.

Why must real life not be as beautiful as those dreams?

Dutch never liked these dreams, though; it wasn't so much that he was jealous he was dreaming of someone else — I shared my heart with both of them — but he felt I was having some sort of premonition, that my end was nearing, and she was ready to meet me at the door.

But, no. I was determined that he didn't need to have that worry over his pretty head.

"Dutch . . . "

He tilted his head again, damnit!

'Breathe in, breathe out, Old Girl.'

And I did, and found my voice again.

"Dutch, do you still find me . . . Attractive?" I slipped my hand over his as he cupped my jaw, absently, nervously rubbing a finger over his rings as I've caught myself doing while talking him down from whatever ridiculous plan he was cooking up in that head of his.

He tilted his head a little more, the expression going from merely soft to . . .

Devastated.

"Of course."

Shock enveloped Dutch; his cigar dropped out of his fingers and onto the dock. It was an uncharacteristic gesture; he loved to dramatically toss — no, throw — his cigars in any given direction, not caring if it would even end up in the stew pot.

Later, Arthur would pick that damn thing back up when he went fishing in the morning; our unruly son, bless his soul and ten toes, is a bit odd.

But, let's move away from the subject of Arthur's weird habits — I could write a whole story on that, but I think I'll spare him the embarrassment — you came to read a story about a misunderstanding between two old men, and a story about a misunderstanding between two old men is what you will get.

"Of-of course I do . . . " Dutch's voice was shattered; it had been a long while since I've heard him speak in such a tone, and a longer time since I've heard him stammer.

I think Dutch would feel less pain if he had a knife put deep into him and had it twisted, and it gnawed at my very core.

Now I felt guilty, and tried to look away, only for him to scoop both his massive hands underneath my jaw — with frustrating gentleness — so that I would have to look up at his handsome face again.

"What would make you think that?"

I let out a slow, defeated sigh, but I look deep into those eyes, and see a whole world spinning in them; and I wish for him for it to stop.

"'You don't look so rosy, Old Girl.'"

Dutch took in a sharp breath and then roughly let it out; its sound was rattled. A shaking finger trailed up to lightly stroke a cheekbone; oh, how he loved those things, how he loved touching them, kissing them.

"No . . . No . . . " He recoiled, struck by his own words he had spoken at the start of the day.

It was as if he had mortally wounded me.

In truth, my pride *was* hurt, but, it wouldn't be the first time. It wasn't a fatal injury; a mere close call. With a little nurturing, a little time, and maybe something better in my belly than another awful stew, it would heal in time.

But in the meantime, I settled for him holding me close, his soft lips kissing my forehead, and then bringing a hand up to kiss that, too. He was trying to make me smile, and well, maybe I did.

But he couldn't see for the kisses he kept giving me; out of affection, out of love, yes, but also out of appeasement. As if it at any moment I would turn heel and walk out of camp — a fear *I* had earlier.

"I was just . . . Hoping that the warmth would take away your sickness."

​

Dutch was scared. Scared that our settling down in Clements Point was in vain.

​

"But . . . "

​

Scared of losing me.

​

"You are as handsome as the day I met you."

​

Dutch was on the verge of tears, but I was well past the verge; he was just doing a little catching up.

​

"Oh, Dutch . . . "

​

And then, *I* was holding him, our tears intermingled with each other's as we stood cheek-to-cheek.  I rubbed gentle circles across his back, softly kissing that beautiful nose.

​

I had felt Dutch was at his most beautiful when he was feeling vulnerable, and maybe I still felt a little guilt for bringing it out, but he could afford a little humbling.

​

"I wish I could feel it."

​

"I mean it . . . " He half-whimpered, half-whispered, and not convinced he meant what he said, nestled his face into the crook of my neck. He did this often when he felt vulnerable, needing comfort, reassurance, and a need to be believed. He didn't care that Father Time was causing it to sag, the skin thinning.

​

And then, maybe absently, maybe just wanting to hear me laugh, Dutch pressed a kiss between my neck and ear — my tickle spot — caused me to break the mood with a ridiculous, snorting laugh. I even tried to stifle it, but to no avail.

And of course, he did it again — and I was glad for it; it felt good to laugh again; oh, how it felt so good to laugh.

"Dutch . . . !" I genuinely *squeaked* through my tears, and teasingly I grabbed his nose — just nearly missed a playful nip from him. I leaned in, though, grabbed it again, and whispered, maybe a little conspiringly.

"You're going to cause a scene!" I snuck a playful wink in, maybe finding amusement in the idea of a small audience.

And then he laughed, and pulled back just enough that he could get a good look at my face, which he thinks is as pretty as a painting. He blinked away the remaining tears, bringing his hand back up to my cheek to stroke with his thumb. He wiped away a tear, thinking my face was too handsome to bear them, but something else gave him pause.

"Looking rosy again, Hosea."

He softly squeezed my hand — if you guessed that my hands were his favourite part of me, you would be correct — and softly held it to my cheek. Indeed, it did feel a little warm; surely it was from the Lemoyne air. Had to be!

"See?"

Dutch wore the biggest, stupidest grin across his face; maybe a little crooked, the type of smile he likes to reserve for me. But I wasn't going to give him credit for making me feel a little rosy, would I?

Oh, no, perish the thought!

"It's a warm day, Dutch," I nodded with feigned ruefulness.

But Dutch was one step ahead!

"The sun's going down, Hosea."

Dutch just had to speak to me in that tone; a soft, almost vulnerable and certainly *needy* tone where I know it would be only a matter of time until he would butter me up with kiss; slow, long, lingering kind. And yet, his words were at once literal and figurative; we're growing old, and we know it.

How many kisses did we have left?

Dutch wouldn't let me dwell, though; he gently framed my reportedly handsome face in his hands, and softly, tenderly kissed the night away.

​

[purplecatdad]

To The End Of The World

Part of the RDR Secret Winter Exchange hosted by @rdrevents, written for @cheetz0! Prompt: Charles comforting Arthur during a fever! Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith | Comfort | Teen Audience | No Tuberculosis Arthur knew that his stubborness would be the end of him one day. But not as long Charles was there to protect him.

Read it on AO3

Arthur was sure that he had seen the pretty white horse run up the dang hill. It had looked a lot like the Count, its coat a pristine white, which had made it hard for him to follow the creature through the snow. Like most Arabians it was fast, faster than his trusty Shire Grimm, which made it even harder to catch - but Arthur knew that it would also make for a good race horse to sell to some fancy folk. He did that sometimes, when he needed time away from camp. Go out to look for horses that would make a pretty penny, tame them enough to be sold and then bring that money back to camp. Everyone had to do their part and he was happy to do his, especially if it involved horses. And it was a good excuse to get away from all of it - to take a break and breath, to just do his own thing. He knew that this time he had been gone for longer than usual, probably close to three weeks now. But it had felt good to be away from everyone. And now his travels had lead him back to the snow of Colter on the hunt for the Arabian.

What Arthur hadn't really considered though was that this horse was so much faster than his own. He loved Grimm to bits, he was a brave horse that could carry him easily and loved to learn little tricks as well, when he was bribed with a juicy apple slice. But he certainly wasn't a race horse and so the Arabian slipped away from his view again and again. Until night fell and he had no choice but to find shelter. Not only because of the dark but also because of the cold and the snow that had just started to fall down.

"Alright, boy, let's find someplace to stay warm …", he said, scratching Grimms neck as he looked around. Luckily he saw an old shed in the distance that might've housed some goats before, right next to the remnants of a tiny house. A tree had fallen through the roof of the house but the shed looked steady enough. "We'll find that pretty horse tomorrow", Arthur said to Grimm, assuring himself more than the horse. He had been ignoring his cough all day but now he also felt a headache forming behind his eyes. Oh, what he'd do for a warm stew now.

Arthur felt too exhausted to go out and collect firewood so he simply settled against the back wall of the shed which was open at the front, to stay away as far as possible from the snow and lay down on his sleeping pad. He couldn't hold back his coughing anymore now, a cough that he could feel burning in his lungs and that made him spit out phlegm. He knew that he was starting to get sick but it had gotten worse in such a short time that he hadn't really considered it a problem before he rode up to the icy mountain. Grimm huffed next to him, probably annoyed that he couldn't nibble on grass or sleep somewhere warm but before Arthur could really say anything to him he already drifted off to some restless sleep.

When he woke it was light outside again but Arthur felt nothing like sunshine. He was shivering and felt the sweat trickling down his forehead. Fuck. A fever was the last fucking thing he needed. A small part of him wondered if he could still catch that pretty white horse but he buried that thought immediately when he got up and almost fell because he swayed so much. If he hadn't leaned on Grimm for support he'd be on the ground already

"Alright boy … I think it's time to get somewhere warmer, don't you agree … " he mumbled as he lead Grimm out of the shed. He needed three tries until he finally had pulled himself up and into the saddle, secretly cursing himself that he chose such a gigantic horse as his companion. But when Grimm started walking into the right direction without prompting, just like he absolutely understood what Arthur's intention were, he knew why he had chosen him, "Good boah…" he said, patted his neck and then allowed himself to close his eyes. Horses knew how to find back to civilization, usually… and he trusted Grimm so he closed his eyes, just for a little bit …

"Arthur? Arthur!!"

Arthur needed a moment until he properly woke up. Taïma? Since when could she talk? But then he noticed Charles, standing next to her with a worried look on his face. "Charles …?"

"Where have you been? I've been looking for you for days now!"

He tried to answer. He really did. But before he could get out a proper word, the whole world went dark around him.

When he woke though he was wrapped up in a woven blanket with some fur thrown over him as well. He felt cold and hot at the same time, the sweat still on his forehead. Arthur blinked a couple of times while his eyes adjusted to the light of the fire that was dancing in front of him. As he stirred, he noticed movement next to him. For a second he didn't know where he was, he tried to get up but immediately felt a hand on his shoulder that easily pinned him down.

"Sssh, it's alright. Stay there … you've got a fever."

He recognized that voice. Charles. Why was he … ? And then he remembered. How sick he felt. Carried by Grimm through the snow, all on his own. Until he heard Taïma — no, Charles — call his name. And then everything had gone dark.

"Charles … ", he croaked, his tongue heavy and barely following his commands. He knew that Charles didn't like it when he stayed away for too long — not because he thought it was too dangerous (Charles himself rode off alone often enough) but because he said that he missed him. Oftentimes they rode off together and enjoyed the freedom of just setting up camp anywhere and sharing the bed but sometimes Arthur just needed to be alone for a week or two. And at some point, Charles always came looking for him — oftentimes ordered by Dutch because the man knew that Arthur would listen to him. Usually.

Charles moved closer to him, close enough that he could feel his legs through the thick blankets surrounding him, and pressed a wet cloth onto his burning forehead. "I'm glad you're awake again … You were burning up so bad I wasn't sure if I could get the fever down at all", he chided, his voice still soft and gentle. It was one of the things Arthur loved about him — how gentle he was when given the chance, away from the robberies and the harsh world that they were living in.

Arthur closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation of the wet cloth and his partners soothing voice. He was stubborn and self-sufficient enough to take care of himself, something that he had told Charles again and again but the other man had never given up on taking care of him until, eventually, Arthur got used to being taken care of, now and then. It was a nice feeling, in a way, to rely on someone else for a change. Charles started humming, a song Arthur didn't recognize and he slowly drifted off into the darkness again.

Arthur didn't know how much time had passed when he roused the second time but he could see early morning light shining in through the boards that held together the shack they were staying in. The light that Arthur had to squint against when he woke up the first time had simmered down to some red glowing wood in a little wood-stove right in front of him. Remnants of the people who once had occupied this shack, before they moved on and left it to the wilderness. A cold wind pushed through the shack and made Arthur shiver underneath his blankets. He felt more like himself again, that was for sure, but he still didn't feel healthy yet. And where was ..

"Charles?", he tried to call out but he could barely get the word out. He knew the man wouldn't just leave him alone again after taking care of him like this.

"I'm here, love", Charles said as he entered the shack and relief washed over Arthur. He knew that he would've survived this on his own (probably) but it was nice to know that he didn't have to. "I just got us some more wood for the fire."

Arthur sat up carefully as the other man opened the wood-stove and placed the wood inside. "How are you feeling?" He asked and sat down next to him.

"Like shit." Arthur immediately slumped against him and Charles, who chuckled softly, wrapped his wonderfully strong arms around him. They didn't have much time — or the space — for such gentle moments during their everyday lives and even though Arthur objectively felt like shit right now he enjoyed the closeness. For a moment it was quiet between them, peaceful and steady. They didn't need to talk much anyway, they just felt comfort in each other's presence. That was another one of the things that Arthur loved about Charles — he didn't expect anything of him. He knew that he needed his freedom but he also knew that sometimes he needed someone to lean onto. And somehow, Charles always found the right balance. Arthur could only hope that Charles felt the same way, that he was also someone Charles could rely on. Not right now, of course, but in general.

"You're an idiot for riding out in the snow all on your own. Especially when you're sick", Charles told him in a gentle voice. Of course Arthur knew.

"Had a good reason", Arthur started, his head resting against Charles chest. "There was a white Arabian 'round Lake Isabella. Wanted to catch it and break it in, would've made some good money. But Grimm was having trouble with the snow so … " A cough rippled through him, dry and painful and he was glad about the big hand that gently stroked over his back as he was going through it, his lungs burning as he tried to gain back his composure. God, he hated being sick and feeling useless.

"Robbing a dang bank would be less risky than running after a horse in the snow." Charles said with a smile dancing around his lips that Arthur just knew was there from the sound of his voice. He knew Charles was right. That didn't make him like his answer any more though.

"Where's Grimm? You didn't let the horses sleep out in he snow, did you?"

Charles gently shook his head. "No, they're safe, don't worry. There's another shed over there, it even had some grass to nibble on. Speaking of grass — I brought some herbs along. I will make you a tea to drink, it'll help against the cough", he said and slowly got up to give Arthur time to re-adjust his position. Arthur immediately missed the warm strong body next to him but he knew that it would be for the best. He probably should also eat something and as soon as he thought about it his stomach started grumbling. Charles chuckled softly. "Yeah, I'll also heat up a can of beans for you."

Arthur watched as Charles got to work, opening the can of beans with his knife and placing it on the stove to heat up, then bringing in a mug full of snow to melt on top of the stove, placing the herbs in as soon as it had melted into water. "We should give you another day of resting and then I'll bring you back to camp", Charles decided. Arthur wanted to protest but Charles gave him a stern look and he decided against it. Charles just knew him too well.

"Alright", Arthur eventually agreed and watched as Charles stirred the can of beans to make sure the bottom didn't get burned. He didn't look forward to coming back home to camp without anything of value to add to the camp funds — Dutch would nag him about it, he was sure — but Charles was right. It was a stupid idea to try and catch the white Arabian in this state. And who knew? Maybe they'd find something (or someone) on the way to rob, so that they wouldn't come home empty handed. After it had some time to steep, Charles took the mug of tea and handed it to Arthur, who took it and blew at the hot liquid before he carefully tried a bit of it.

"Ugh, tastes like ass", he said as he scrunched up his nose.

"Well, you seem to like the taste of my ass, so …" Charles said with a short, dirty grin and Arthur had to chuckle — which ended in some more coughing. Shit, he couldn't even properly laugh anymore.

Charles got a bottle of whiskey from his satchel and topped up the tea with it. "Nothing a little whiskey can't fix." He wasn't sure of Charles meant the taste or the coughing — but Arthur was sure that it would help with both of that.

He tried another sip and hummed at the well-known burning down his throat and the warm feeling in his chest. "Oh, much better", he said and gave Charles a smile who smiled back at him. He tipped his head back as he took a swing of the whiskey himself and then grabbed the beans before he sat down next to Arthur once again. Charles pulled a blanket around their shoulders and Arthur leaned against him once again. He still felt awful but this was good. The man he loved next to him and a hot drink with a good punch in his hand. He softly sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Thank you … " he said in a low voice. "For looking for me." He didn't take it for granted, that he just followed him this far, halfway up a damn mountain and into the snow. He was used to Dutch sending people after him if he strayed too far, but that had always felt like him yanking back the leash that he felt had gotten too long. Arthur knew that Dutch needed him, to keep the gang running, to keep everyone well fed. And he liked to play the role, to do what needed to be done, to be the workhorse around camp. But few had ever asked him how he was. Few had ever taken care of him or told him to rest. There was always more money to make and more places to rob. More animals to hunt or fish to catch.

And then Charles had joined them and had changed everything. Now he knew that there was someone else he could rely on. Charles had asked him how he was, had followed him out to help him with hunting, had followed him to make sure he was alright. Even when Dutch sent our Charles to go after him, Charles would always make sure that he was ready to return before they did. Would always make sure that he was okay.

"I'd follow you to the end of the world," Charles returned just as soft. "You should know that by now."

He heard the smile in his voice and opened his eyes to look at him. Charles had taught him a new kind of love, one that he hadn't known before. Steady and true. Two equals, both independend but happy to be with each other. He hoped that he'd never lose this. Lose him. "I do, yeah," he leaned over to kiss Charles' lips but was stopped by him.

"No kisses as long as you're sick. Have some beans." He held out the can towards him, the spoon sticking out of it. Arthur groaned dramatically but he knew that Charles had far more self control than he himself had. So he took the spoon and stuffed his face with a spoonful of beans to appease his boyfriend, shortly chewed and gulped it down with his Whiskey-tea. A true feast.

With every bite and every sip he started to feel better, some energy slowly getting back into him. But when he got up later to follow nature's call he had to admit that Charles had been right to decide to stay for another night. He was not ready to travel. So they spent their day playing cards and (in Arthur's case) napping. Charles made him another "tea" and on the end of the day they cuddled together in a nest of blankets and furs. Arthur's fever had gotten up again but not dangerously so and Charles had decided that a good amount of rest would be enough to fix him up again.

And so he lay in Charles' arms, wrapped in blankets, and breathed in his smell. Leather and herbs. He felt safe and protected and loved, something he only ever felt with Charles. And as he fell asleep once more he couldn't stop thinking about how lucky he was to have him and be loved by him. How lucky he was to have him by his side, his arms around him and his heartbeat in his ear, lulling him to sleep. Oh how he loved this man.

[wolfmeat]

Cowboy Songs, a tiny, fluffy Charthur fic

for the @rdrevents Secret Winter Exchange! this fic is for @galateasfire. I hope you like it!

[starburstsobsessions]

RDR SECRET EXCHANGE COMPLETE AND MY RECIPIENT IS YOU @roamingtigressss :D! I got so excited to see your name because I really appreciate your effort in taking red dead screenshots and I think you do really good work <3 I hope you like it! I wanted to do your number 1 prompt but your second one came to me more aaaa!

@rdrevents TYSM for hosting I will be back around!!!!!!!

Debated text version <3 I liked the no-text better but figured I'd include both

[starburstsobsessions]

RDR SECRET EXCHANGE COMPLETE AND MY RECIPIENT IS YOU @roamingtigressss :D! I got so excited to see your name because I really appreciate your effort in taking red dead screenshots and I think you do really good work <3 I hope you like it! I wanted to do your number 1 prompt but your second one came to me more aaaa!

@rdrevents TYSM for hosting I will be back around!!!!!!!

Debated text version <3 I liked the no-text better but figured I'd include both

[rdrevents]

It’s that time, cowpokes!

GIFT REVEALS!

Put down your pens, save those word documents, and shed the mystery! At long last we welcome you all to share your Secret Winter Exchange content and reveal yourselves to your gift recipients!

We are so excited to see what amazing content you’ve all created over the last few weeks, and look forward to sharing it!

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–

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[rdrevents]

hiiii question. regardless of what my recipient gave as preferred platform, can i post my gift to both tumblr AND ao3? or only the one the recipient gave? thank youuuu

Howdy,

You can absolutely post your gift on more than one platform, it's just important that one of them would be your recipient's preferred one!

~ RDR Events Team

[rdrevents]

3 DAYS TO GO

Festive Greetings, Cowpokes!

It’s hard to believe, but there’s only 3 DAYS LEFT of the Secret Winter Exchange! It’s time to finish up those finer details and hunt down those last few typos.

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