#Arthur Morgan/reader

[grymghoul]

ARTHUR MORGAN has an impressive cock. You'd always figured a man who carries himself so surely would have one like that. Thick and heavy, crowned with hair a bit darker than what was on his head. The way it would always be half hard anytime he was around you was flattering. The way he'd take up all the space in that hotel room, striding around, parading naked, he'd steal the air from your lungs. The way it'd pat against his thighs as he took heavy steps through the room. You'd stare and he'd look away, flush in the face. There was an inherent sense of boyish charm about him, how he could be so rough and callous, but the second he was alone with you he was nearly shy. Intimacy with Arthur was earned, a privilege, not a thing to trifle with. He'd given it to you and you hadn't even realized how hard it was to earn this from him.

He blushed bright red when you'd seen it the first time, that breathy "Oh, Arthur.." had sent a chill down his spine. Arthur was extra careful with you, fearing he'd split you right in half on his cock. There was no hiding it. The way his ranch pants would be fuller around you, the obvious bulge of denim stretching around it. He loved that you could try to swallow it all you wanted and you could still grip fingers worth of it as his tip touched the back of your throat. He loved being able to have you seated on top of him and see his dick fucking you from the outside. A firm hand pressed against you, making you tighter and he could feel the way he so lovingly damaged your sweet pussy.

He would torment your guts almost effortlessly. He'd have you gripping the sheets, choking back moans and sobs and all manners of pretty noises in a hitched tone without even trying. He wasn't an egotistical man, but he knew it couldn't be like this for every man or no job would ever get done in the world. It'd come to a stand still as everyone would be lined up to fuck the next man. No, no he had to have something special with you. He was easily enamored with you and how you'd feel wrapped all warm and tight around him. How snug you were.

Each time felt like the first with Arthur. The way he filled you and would have you swollen and sore the next day. Even after the bath you'd end up in together, he'd keep you there, wet and sudsy against him and his thick member until you had pruny fingers. He loved that you were a whiny mess just from being near his cock.

You were made for him by God, he wasn't religious but he was sure of it. You fit better than any glove or shirt or saddle he could have tailor made. You were just as addicted to him. The way his flared head could take up residency inside you made you know that there was some higher power and they were merciful in such a way for you to have a taste of heaven on earth with your Arthur.

[nevadancitizen]

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

synopsis: After a deal goes wrong, you wake up in an abandoned building with an outlaw-looking man pointing a gun at you. To your surprise (and disbelief), you're in 1899. Much like the rest of your life, you didn't sign up for this. But, like the rest of your life, you'll learn how to deal with it. Maybe you'll even learn how to survive -- maybe even thrive -- in this new... predicament you've found yourself in.

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

tags: Time Travel, Slow Burn, Found Family, Van der Linde Gang as Family (Red Dead Redemption), POV Second Person, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Modern!Reader, reader is from the year of yahweh 2024

AO3 link, if you prefer to read there

massive thanks to: @heart-of-gold-outlaw for inspiring this, and @reddeadreference for keeping such a clean and well-organized blog of references that have helped a lot while writing ^_^

note: the reader in this fic is gender neutral. please do not refer to them with feminine or masculine pronouns. instead, please address them by they/them pronouns. this fic is all-inclusive and not meant to alienate anyone -- it's meant to be written so that everyone can read, no matter their personal pronouns!

PROLOGUE

COLTER

CH. 1: Somewhere (Far, Far) East of the Mojave

CH. 2: Charles Smith, the Man That You Are

HORSESHOE OVERLOOK

CH. 3: Of True and False Memories

CH. 4: The Mystery That is Arthur Morgan

CH. 5: A Cockfight Full of Pricks

CH. 6: Cup Your Mouth & Whisper Your Secrets

CH. 7: Suitors & Seers

CH. 8: The Real Housewives of Horseshoe Overlook

CH. 9: Unsaid Understandings

CH. 10: <currently being written...>

[starlight-and-whiskey]

Under Your Skin: Ch2

Prologue Ch1 Ao3

Never meaning to, you end up pregnant with Arthur Morgan's child. One child leads to a happiness you never thought you'd find, which in turn leads to a family Arthur never thought he deserved. Tags: @baizzhu, @chonkercatto, @heron-feathers, @not-minho, @multi-fandom3, @warmsideofthepillow03, @photo1030

When the two of you finally made your way back to camp, the first thing to hit you was the deafening quiet of it all.

Normally by this time in the evening, camp would be bustling. Everyone settling in for the evening to play cards or to drink by the fire, their chores finally done for the day. Instead, a low hush had fallen, accompanied by a slow turn of heads, a question held with bated breath.

Word had certainly travelled fast.

Under the weight of thick silence, Hosea made his way over slowly, pausing in front of Arthur.

"Son?" He asked quietly, a weathered hand laying gently on his arm.

With a metered breath, Arthur glanced to you then back to the older man, a gentle smile slowly tugging at his lips.

"I'm gonna be a father”, Arthur said softly through a lopsided smile.

Almost instantaneously, a warm, broad grin broke out on Hosea's face as he clasped Arthur's hand in a hearty shake, clapping a firm hand to his shoulder. 

"You sure are, my boy!"

A collective soft exhale rippled through the camp, the tension releasing in a smattering of warm, giddy smiles. Amongst dramatic cheers and barking laughs, broad hands clapped Arthur hard on the back, hands gave his shoulders a firm shake.

Arthur ducked his head with a sheepish grin, shoulders hunching and cheeks flushing under the sudden wave of attention.

“Ah, get off o’ me,” he bit out through a hearty chuckle and a grin wider than you'd seen in weeks, shoving away an overzealous Sean who seemed intent on attempting to half cuddle the man. Blue eyes bashfully flicked away from the gaggle of brutish men and found yours. Soft. Gentle. Proud. 

You didn’t notice Abigail at first as she sidled up beside you, not until her voice came soft against the whooping and hollering.

“This mean I’m forgiven?”

You turned, startled to find her standing close, her eyes glassy and her bottom lip caught cautiously between her teeth.

With tears welling in your eyes at the damn relief of it all, you instinctively reached for her, pulling her into a tight hug. “I’m sorry,” you whispered into her hair.

“It’s forgotten,” she murmured back, gripping you tightly.

When she finally pulled away, Abigail kept on hand on your arm, the other reaching up to brush falling tears away with gentle fingers.

“Hey,” she whispered through a broad grin, the apples of her cheeks rounding with glee. “You’re gonna have a baby.”

A sharp, disbelieving laugh burst from your lungs as you nodded quickly, sniffling hard to hold back the remaining tirade of tears that threatened to spill over. A trembling hand glanced over your belly, and you drew a shaking breath before looking back at her with a watery smile.  

"I’m gonna have a baby,” you repeated, smiling back at her and finally feeling the weight of those words.

Abigail laughed with you, pulling you back into a hug as the noise of celebration grew around you.

"Hey, quit hoggin' her!" Karen half yelled with a beaming grin, wrapping her arms around you as soon as Abigail let go.

"Now what in God’s name are you all just standing ‘round here for?" Dutch’s voice came booming across camp like a whip crack, stilling the revelry in an instant. Your body tensed. Arthur’s mouth went dry. For a moment, the years fell away, and Arthur felt like he was fourteen years old again, standing before a disapproving father. Heads turned and the camp held its breath as those steely eyes swept across the group, jaw set tight. Slowly, theatrically, a broad grin broke out on Dutch’s face as he opened his arms like a preacher at a pulpit. “This calls for a celebration!”, he bellowed, pointing a ringed finger. “Mr Pearson, don’t just stand there! Go and fetch some more whiskey!”

Smiles returned and a low whoop emanated from Sean, who made himself busy assisting Pearson in dragging crates from the wagon, never one to miss a good party.

“Mr Escuella!”, Dutch continued, waving at the newest recruit, “Reckon it’s time you put that guitar of yours to good use!”

Cheers erupted anew, laughter returning like it had been waiting just beneath the surface, only needing permission to come roaring back to life. The tension that had gripped your spine finally began to loosen its hold under the renewed laughter and cheers, the chinking of bottles and soft notes of music from a land you didn’t know melting away some of the fear you’d secreted away, sparking a ripple of relief through your limbs. The evening passed slowly in a flurry of congratulations – a hug from Hosea, Karen musing names, Mary-Beth hoping for a girl. One by one, the stars blinked open above it all, the moon casting its silvery glow against the inky black of a still, cloudless night.

“There’s the proud mama,” Dutch said with a broad smile, arms already open. Almost tenderly, he wrapped you in a tight embrace, squeezing once before easing back, a hand on your shoulder. “Congratulations, sweetheart.”

You blinked up at him, your voice quieter than you expected. “So… you ain’t mad?”

Dutch’s brow furrowed, then he laughed - really laughed - his whole face creasing at the corners.

“Mad?” he scoffed, as if the very idea offended him. “Why in God’s name would I be mad?”

You glanced down, half-smiling. “Another mouth to feed, y’know. What with everything we’re already up against…”

Dutch waved a hand through the air like he was swatting off the thought itself.

“You look at what we’ve built here,” he said wistfully, the firelight casting gold across his features as he cast an upturned palm around the camp. You followed the gesture, eyes landing on grinning faces. You saw Abigail cradling her baby boy, heard the warbling singing of Uncle, watched Grimshaw reluctantly dancing with Pearson as Strauss watched from the side-lines with a tight-lipped smile. “A family.”

Dutch dropped his gaze, splaying a hand over your flat stomach. “And that little one, they are only ever gonna know the taste of being free. Just like little Jack,” he grinned, like a prophet intent on leading this band of outcasts to salvation. “You let me worry about the mouths to feed.”

*

The night wore on until the fire had worn down and your cheeks ached from smiling. The laughter had quietened now, melting into low murmurs around smouldering embers, the chink of another empty bottle being tossed aside giving way to the occasional drunken slur of a half-remembered song. Bones aching, but chest light, you wandered to the edge of camp, seeking a moment of solitary peace. A few seconds just to think, to breathe. The stillness was short lived when you heard the muted murmur of Arthur’s voice behind Dutch’s tent. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, truly you hadn’t, but the low and steady cadence of whispered words made your ears prick.

“Never thought I’d be a father once, let alone twice,” Arthur said softly.

Twice? Arthur had never mentioned another child…

“Second chances are a wonderous thing”, came Dutch’s voice.

There was a pause - a gentle shifting of boots on dirt, the creak of leather.

“What if… Dutch, what if I screw it up again?”

Why hadn’t he mentioned another child?

You held your breath, listening more intently now despite the guilt at prying, your interest piqued.

“You won’t”, Dutch said firmly, followed by a soft sigh, his voice lowering. “Son, you didn’t.”

“I don’t think I could take that again. That... that kinda pain.”

“It ain't gonna be like before. They'll be with us. They'll be safe.”

There was a long silence for a moment, broken by a confession carried on a trembling whisper.

"Damnit... I’m just... Hell, Dutch…”, Arthur said. “I’m scared.”

You felt your heart crack right down the centre.

"Look at me son. You look at me and you listen good,” Dutch continued. “Everything is gonna be just fine."

You’d never known Arthur scared. Not really. Concerned, maybe. Angry, definitely.

Turned in on himself in sullen silence, or biting out sarcastic barbs through a lopsided smile when things went south. You’d known him wounded, bruised and bleeding and too proud to ask for help. But scared?

No. Never that. You weren’t sure there was anything on this earth that could scare Arthur. There was nothing that could take this man – so steady, unshakeable, dependable – and strip him down to his marrow.

Deep down you knew that was foolish, of course. All men got scared.

*

It must have been well past midnight when you heard the scrape of boots outside Arthur’s tent. You’d sat there, hunched on the edge of his cot for hours, just waiting. Thinking. You’d meant to go back to your tent, but your feet had moved unbidden until you were stood by his bed, surrounded by his meagre belongings – a photograph of his mother, a blooming flower in a glass jar, a shaving mirror with a crack in the corner and a piece missing.

The tent flap rustled, the broad frame of Arthur ducking inside, rubbing at tired eyes. He blinked at you in surprise, pausing for a second before closing the flap behind him, closing out the night.

“Thought you’d gone to bed,” he said softly, reading your face the way he read storm clouds and stars. “Something wrong?”

“I heard you,” you whispered through a thick throat. “You and Dutch. I didn’t mean to. I just…”

Arthur stood in the stillness. You could feel him thinking. He took a few slow steps forward, then eased himself down beside you on the cot, exhaling hard like something had come loose in his ribs. You turned your face just enough to see him in profile, and the weight behind his eyes was staggering.

“I shouldn’t have listened”, you stumbled, looking down at your hands. “I’m sorry.”

Arthur shook his head slowly, pushing out a long, steady breath. “No… no, it’s alright.”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. The words sat heavy on his tongue, sticking behind his teeth.

“I had a son,” Arthur nodded almost imperceptibly, glancing up at you with glossy eyes.

“You never said.”

“Ain’t much to say”, he shrugged. “He died. Long time ago.”

You sat in silence, hands clasped in your lap and eyes tracing Arthur’s worn features as he told you of a little boy, unplanned but loved. He told you of a girl, all of nineteen years old, who never asked him for a dime, never asked him to stay. He told you of visits he had with them, a few snatched days here and there where he would play with Isaac, and help Eliza fix that hole in the chicken coop. Your heart ached as he told you about that fateful afternoon, when he’d ridden up that well worn path and found only two small wooden crosses. A robbery gone wrong. A few measly dollars and a loaded gun. And just like that, in an instant, Arthur’s world had crumbled beneath him.

You stayed quiet, letting him talk. Letting him bleed out at his own pace.

“I never told nobody”, he murmured, scrubbing a broad palm roughly down his face. “Not really. Dutch knows. Hosea. I guess folk know, but...”

Silence fell, thick and heavy, as he trailed off. You reached for him then, slowly placing your hand over his. He glanced up at you again, a sad smile twitching at the corner of his lips before he turned his palm up, threading your fingers together with a squeeze and tapping your hand lightly against his thigh.

“I’m sorry”, you said softly.

He sniffed thickly, thumbing under his nose with a low, uneasy chuckle and a steady nod. “It was a long time ago.”

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you blinked at the rough hand clasping yours, tongue flicking out to graze your bottom lip, your own secrets bubbling between your ribs. Your free hand moved to gently cradle where a bump would soon form, carrying the precious cargo of Arthur's redemption. 

“I had a husband”, you said quietly against the still night air, eyes tracing the long shadows cast by a flickering oil lamp. A secret for a secret.

Arthur cocked an eyebrow, eyes meeting yours. “You never said”

“Ain’t much to say”, you echoed through a puff of breath that might have been a chuckle had the air not felt so solemn. “Nasty son of a bitch. A drunk. I never wanted to marry him, not really. But… you know how things are.”

Arthur nodded, squeezed your hand again.

“Used to beat me something awful when he got in those moods of his. Then this one night, he comes home. Drunk. Angry. Lost his money at cards as usual. And he makes to raise a hand to me. And… and I realised I weren’t takin’ that no more.”

The cogs in Arthur’s mind started turning, thinking back to that night Hosea had brought you into camp all those years. Brought you home. A defiant, wiry thing – all rough around the edges and so damn untrusting of any shred of kindness. Clothes torn and patched, hollow cheeked and nailbeds packed with mud. On the run, Hosea had said. Wanted for murder. It was never spoken of again after those first few days of curious mumblings, it was a question that never needed to be asked. You were an outlaw now, and you were one of them. The details were of no importance to a band of killers and thieves.

“So you killed him”, Arthur stated softly.

Biting your bottom lip, you nodded, letting your teeth scrape back over the soft, plump skin.

“So I killed him.”

When Arthur released your fingers, you searched his face for any trace of disgust or shame but found none. He simply looked at you with that steady gaze of his and looped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into him. “Good.”

Laying your head against his broad shoulder, you felt a soft press of lips against your hair and the steady trace of calloused fingertips trailing patterns on your arm, the metered rise and fall of his breath. As minutes passed in silence, you tried to bite back the yawn that threatened to no avail, and pressed the back of your wrist to your lips.

“Ought’a get some rest”, Arthur murmured.

“Mm”, you hummed. “Yeah. I should get back.”

Arthur’s arm around you didn’t loosen. “You could stay here?”

He caught the quizzical look in your eyes and shrugged. “Wouldn’t exactly be the first time now, would it? Only wouldn’t have to sneak out at dawn this time.”

“Folk’ll…”

“What? Talk?” He chuckled. “Darlin’, you’re carrying my kid. Don’t reckon they’d much care no more.”

You huffed a laugh, suddenly realising how silly the notion of wagging tongues seemed. And besides, the prospect of spending a night wrapped in the warmth of Arthur’s steady arms seemed too good to pass up. You’d missed the weight of him beside you, the puff of his breath against the nape of your neck as a solid bare chest pressed against your spine. So, gladly, you toed off you boots and settled down on the cot, shuffling to make room for his hulking frame.

Arthur sighed softly as he laid down beside you and readjusted his grip, a hand brushing down your side to nestle in the divot of your waist. “Missed you bein’ here”, he said quietly. You hummed contently and let him brush back your hair.

“Are we out of our minds?”, you whispered against the dark

“What?”, he rumbled, the whiskers on his chin scratching lightly against your forehead.

“Doin’ this. Having a kid.”

“Probably,” he chuckled. “Don’t see as we got much choice about it, though.” A steady sigh feathered your hairline. “Just glad you ain’t mad at me no more.”

“I wasn’t mad at you.”

“Mm.”

“Just reckoned you wouldn’t want me no more.”

A calloused hand reached up through the dark, cupping your cheek.

“Baby or not”, he whispered, “Reckon I’d-a loved you either way.”

You froze, blinking at a man who had just confessed something before realising he was going to say it. Wide eyes searched the shadows of his face, an arched palm against his chest felt the steady thrumming of his heartbeat.

“You… you love me?”

Arthur gave a small shrug, barely noticeable, his voice low and rumbling. “That alright?”

You opened your mouth, closed it again, tongue wetting your bottom lip before glancing back at him with wet eyes and a hint of a tight-lipped smile tugging at the corners of your lips. 

You nodded. 

He closed the distance between you, taking your chin between thumb and forefinger and tilting your face towards his.

"I love you", he drawled roughly, slowly, like a secret passed in the dark. 

[prettyundeadgirl]

Love Like Ghosts

│Track One of Strange Trails

Summary: Within the night, an inebriated Arthur returns. You take care of him, and when morning arrives, he realizes how in love he really is.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Wordcount: 1.0k

Tags: Fluff

AO3 Link

likes, comments, and reblogs are highly appreciated! :)

The silver moon, curved like a bear’s sharp claw, shone a hazy glow through the lattice of leaves in the caliginous night. Branches swayed peacefully in the breeze, and amid the grassy land, water coalesced atop the mire earth. Hidden in the wavering stalks, a small orchestra of katydids performed their stridulations.

Everyone had scattered to greet their awaiting slumber, and you remained awake, sitting on the stairs and leaning against the firm wooden pillar with nature’s veins strangling it. You were engrossed in a book Mary-Beth had lent to you—one she had owned the longest and must’ve been a personal favorite, you figured from the frayed edges of the spine and the worn pages. It had been your solace for the time being, distracting you from your ceaseless worrying about Arthur’s absence and staving off the encroaching drowsiness. The lantern beside you illuminated enough light for you to read the tiny printed letters.

Time flowed like a river, and you grew inevitably weary, eyelids beginning to close until you heard steady hooves clomping in the muddy grounds near the entrance. The sound resonated throughout the area as it came closer and closer. Arthur returned, almost falling as he tried to dismount his horse. He hitched the reins to the hitching post, all the while holding a bottle devoid of whiskey in his other hand. You closed the tattered book in haste and doused the lantern, rushing toward him.

“Oh, Arthur, I’ve been worried sick.” You admitted.

“Why?” He asked, practically tripping over his own steps.

“What do you mean ‘why?’ I care about you. More than you know.” Your voice was laced with much sincerity, and you stated your words in confidence, realizing he wouldn’t remember anything by morning. He looked into your soft gaze for a moment, his befuddled state along with the lack of light dulling your worried expression. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.” He let himself acquiesce to your words, and you placed his arm across your shoulders to give him as much support as you could offer.

“You look pretty tonight.” He slurred, and although you smiled and blushed at the compliment, you still rolled your eyes, knowing he was drunk and those words possibly held no truth.

Entering the once charming and grandiose manor that is now timeworn, veiled in the overgrowth of untouched green and merely a tomb contained with memories of the ones who inhabited it before, you guided him through the dark. Strangely, it provided a sense of comfort and safety, though not as much as Arthur did during your time with the gang.

The old stairs creaked in protest as you went up, and there was the occasional trip or two from Arthur, with a small chuckle following after. Pushing open the door revealed his cozy room, which was bathed in the soft gleam of moonlight filtered through the begrimed windowpanes and casting shadows on the walls. You removed his hat, placing it on the table nearby, and then, with careful and tender hands, you unbuckled his gun belt. It clinked as it came in contact with the wooden table. You laid him down and removed his boots, and when his eyes closed, you slowly pressed a small kiss on his forehead.

As you turned to make your way downstairs, a weak grip on your hand prevented you from doing so.

“Stay.” He murmured. ���Please.”

“Why?” You repeated it in the same tone he had given you before.

“‘Cause I…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence for his half-mast eyes had spoken beyond what he could not, and deep within the beating chambers of your heart you knew what it was and felt the same.

You let out a sigh, “Move over.”

He provided as much room as the tight-fitted bed allowed, and as you lay side by side, he pulled you closer into him, arm twined around your waist, the space once between now nonexistent. There was a strong musk that was woven into the linen of his clothes, amalgamated with the scent of heady whiskey, and it wrapped around you with familiarity. You rested against his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall and hearing the drum of his heart against your ear, its rhythm growing faster as you placed your knee on his hip. 

His love for you was a quiet thing; it’s unrelenting and inevitable, yet everyone knew and talked about it. He harbored so much of it for you that it seemed to overflow in his drunken state, though it could only be expressed through actions such as placing the gentlest of kisses on your head, taking in the freshly washed scent of your hair, and holding you as close as he could. In your arms, there was a sense of comfort and peace that he hadn’t felt in a long time and never knew he had been missing in his life, and he was lulled into a calming sleep.

In the early wake of dawn, he hadn’t remembered much from the night as it was, for the most part, a disoriented blur, but he did recall your benevolent disposition, and he didn’t understand why you were so kind to him and always made an effort to look after his well-being. He always appreciated it nonetheless.

He had also recalled the vibrant color of your eyes in your gaze—irises deep and atlantic. He felt as though he could fall through them, following their course and soon getting lost in the darkness that lay beneath. They were endless and almost confusing, and he’d spend an eternity figuring out the mystery of them. A simple glance into your eyes, whether inebriated or not, would make the relentless, gloomy ruminations that sat in his mind scatter away.

He felt your warm presence alongside him, turning his head to your beautiful slumbering visage—peaceful and in bliss—that began his matutinal admiration. It was mesmerizing; you were mesmerizing to him. Every inch of you was, and he longed to live in this moment forever.

He wondered what he had said or done last night for you to end up in his bed and how he wished he could remember that part of the night. He relished the moment for a bit longer, tucking the wisps of hair behind your ear before reluctantly leaving.

[karlseer]

I drew this one for my fic We Exist To Love

Pretty much the woman next to Arthur is my OC, Eugénie Ana Bordeaux, someone from Arthur's past and present. They seem to always gravitate towards each other when things get rough and the future seem bleak.

It's a mix of Found Family and Getting back together trope

[fxndxm-axg]

The smut on tumblr is the best I’ve ever read holy shit I don’t need ao3 when I have this app,,, yall be so fucking GOOD at writing like damn I feel both sexually & intellectually stimulated reading y’all’s shit 😝

[shootybangbang]

WIP

“The greatest feat of civilization,” Dutch had once said. “Lay in the act of domestication. Aurochs to milk cows. Wild fowl to chickens. Wolves to dogs.”

What separates a wolf from a dog? The curse of obeisance. The soft underbelly of complacency. The fanged mouth filed dull by the laws and inventions of men. To the untrained eye, he is of the same construction as his progenitor, perhaps. But no trace of that prior nobility is left in his servile silhouette. Such was the fate of those who allowed themselves to be tempered by society.

“Dogs in human form,” Dutch had thundered from the pulpit of his tent. “Who are content to live leashed and subservient to the whims of their betters.”

And if that were so, then what could the Van der Lindes— who roamed the outer peripheries of civilization, who were governed by nothing save appetite and instinct— be but wolves?

Yet consider the wolf in winter— so thin that his ribs flash through his coat with every step of his loping gait. Yellow eyes gaunt with hunger, and at the mere scent of prey, slaver runs down his jaws like water. Deer and ducks were his usual fare; no longer. With his stomach empty, he will feed upon high and low alike. Where there once might have dwelled pity in his heart, there lives instead the red specter of starvation. 

And times have been lean for the Van der Lindes, as of late. 

———

Your fine red coat had been like a tongue of flame among the black and grey dusters that flanked the bar in that riverside saloon. It caught Arthur’s eye the way a cardinal loosed among crows might. An outsider, and an easy mark. 

You could blush that same pretty shade with just a well-placed compliment, he soon found. Confessed with little resistance that it was your first time round these parts. Riding along to Strawberry to visit an ailing relative. 

Offhand, he mentioned the prettiness of the view along Diablo Bluff. Well worth a detour for anyone with a serviceable horse. He eyed your glossy-coated mare— a pale palomino with a mane like beaten electrum, newly groomed and newly shod— and offered to mark out a choice location on your map.

[12timetraveler]

The Wild Cat

Arthur returns to camp with a Christmas surprise

For @sad-sweet-cowboah for the @rdrevents winter exchange. I hope you enjoy this sweet little story 💙💙

The full story can be read below and on AO3

~~~~~~~

The snow was beautiful, but damn was the winter cold. 

The gang had tried moving a bit further south before the snow hit, but had only made it to a moderate climate before the snow hit and it became too much to move further. So while you weren't stuck up a mountain, you weren't in the nice warm desert either. 

Perhaps you were being a little extra grumpy this morning. Arthur had gone out on an errand for Dutch and Hosea, delivering mail and stopping at a fence to exchange some items for cash. Nothing dangerous, but it was a bit of a ride. Without your sweetheart sleeping beside you, the night had felt cold and long. Fortunately he should easily make it back by later in the afternoon. 

As you sipped your morning coffee, looking out over the white valley you were camped in, you tried to keep that positive in mind. He'd certainly been gone longer, and on more dangerous journeys before. But always you felt his absence. 

Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately), Mrs. Grimshaw wouldn't stand idleness, even when your mind was preoccupied with worry. In fact she seemed more determined to keep you working rather than let you sit in your anxious thoughts. 

By the time Arthur trotted in around sunset, you'd helped Pearson prepare some meats to preserve, had melted snow into water to do the washing, gathered coals from the fire pits to help Pearson cook, and helped patch a hole in Javier's jacket. Now you were taking some time to check the horses, picking snow clumps out of their hooves and making sure none had any injuries unnoticed. 

You didn't even have to look up when you heard the heavy footfalls of Boadicea crunching through the snow toward camp. Arthur’s snappy retort to Lenny’s call of “Who's that?” Was possibly the sweetest sound you'd heard all day, as grumpy as it was. He wasn't a huge fan of the cold either, and it made his rough exterior extra prickly. 

You finished picking the snow clumps out of Old Boy’s back hoof, setting it gently on the ground before straightening out. Arthur smiled as soon as he spotted you over the giant horse’s rump. 

“Hey darlin',” he sighed, dismounting before Bo had even come to a stop. He loosened her girth and removed his saddle bag before letting her loose to get some hay and find warmth amongst the herd. He tried to sling his saddle bag over his shoulder but stopped, lowering it to his side instead. 

“Bout time you rolled in,” you teased, brushing some snow off the fur of his jacket before wrapping him in a hug. 

“If it weren't for the snow I could have made that trip in one day,” he huffed, stomping his feet and rubbing his hands together. 

“Well I'm glad you're back safe,” you cooed, kissing his cheek before hugging him tighter. 

“Careful darlin’. You'll squish ‘im.” He chuckled, gently prying you from his front. 

“Squish who?” You asked, scanning Arthur's body. Surely he wasn't talking about his prick. He always loved when you pressed up against him there. 

“Not that,” Arthur huffed, following your gaze down to his crotch. He undid the top couple of buttons on his coat, grinning all the while as you spotted his surprise. 

An ashy gray fluffball with brown eyes peered out of Arthur's coat. You would have sworn it was a sentient piece of lint. It was hard to tell what the creature was until it let out a pitiful little mewl. 

“Who is this?” You gasped, reaching out to take the little cat as Arthur carefully unlatched its claws from his wool coat. The kitten immediately curled up against you, seeking warmth. 

“He ain't got a name. Yet,” Arthur grinned as he watched the cat search for an entrance into your coat. “Figured I'd leave that honor to you.” He leaned forward, stealing a kiss from you. “Merry Christmas, darlin'.” 

“What... He's for me?” You asked, looking between your sweetheart and the fluffy gray kitten in your arms. 

“Mmmhmm. I remember you talking about that cat you had as a little girl. When I found him I figured I knew someone who'd love him.” 

“Where did you find him?” You asked, watching as the short gray kitten tail disappeared into your coat. 

“Damn near the middle of nowhere,” Arthur huffed, rubbing his gloves hands together. 

“Just wandering the wilderness?” You studied the fluffy little cat, who was now peering up at you from inside your winter coat. “You sure you didn't bring home a mountain lion cub?” You teased.

“Well if you don't want him, give him back,” Arthur pouted. The twinkle in his eyes told you he was just playing along with you. 

“No. He's my little mountain lion,” you huffed, hugging the kitten close. Arthur chuckled. 

“He wasn't quite in the middle of the wilderness. I could see what looked like a homestead that burned down. I'd guess this little guy was the kitten of one of the barn cats. But he was all alone out there.” 

“Poor baby,” you cooed, wiggling your finger at the little kitten. Together you and Arthur made your way to the chuck wagon, and you easily found a can of salmon to feed the starving little furball before heading to your shared tent. The canvas tarps had been lowered around the tent to shield you from the cold, and to protect your privacy from the close proximity of your camp mates. It was still chilly, but the condensed space did provide some warmth. 

The kitten emerged as Arthur cracked open the can of salmon, smelling the yummy treat. Arthur set the can on the ground, and you helped the kitten pull itself out of your jacket. The ravenous little beast began scarfing down the salmon as soon as he was close enough, letting out little “nem nem nem” sounds as he ate. 

Now that the kitten was out in the open, no longer looking to burrow into the nearest coat he could find, you could study his features better. 

He was fairly young. Probably just old enough to be away from his mother. And even though the puffy coat you could tell he was skinny. The ashy color of his fur was textured with blacks and whites, giving a lot of density to his coloring. The tail was stubby like kitten tails are. But as this poor, abandoned kitten stood there, scarfing down the canned salmon, you couldn't help notice the happy way his little tail flicked back and forth. 

“I think he's a Maine Coon,” you mused, examining the kittens features. 

“Huh?” 

“It's a breed of cat,” you explained. “They're most popular up north in, well, in Maine.” 

“You know,” Arthur huffed, sitting beside you on the cot. “I never considered there were breeds of cats like there are horses or dogs. They're just... Cats.” 

“Trust me there are plenty of different cat breeds,” you giggled. “I'm not an expert. But I knew a woman who bred them. This little guy looks a lot like the kittens she had.” 

The little kitten was now finished with its meal and was now taking stock of the new environment. You wiggled your fingers at him, and the kitten focused on on your hand, ready to play now that he'd been fed. 

“If he is a Maine Coon, he's gonna get big,” you giggled, flouncing your fingers out of reach just as the kitten pounced. 

“Oh. So I did bring home a mountain lion cub after all,” Arthur teased. 

“Not quite,” you laughed. “But he will be one long kitty.” 

The kitten pounced at your fingers, narrowly missing your hand with its claws. He latched onto your skirt and climbed your leg, round eyes focused on your hand. 

Arthur watched fondly as the kitten played on your lap. The way your eyes shone down on the little creature, while your lips turned up in a giggle. 

“Do you like him?” Arthur asked. 

“I love him,” you said, grinning up at your husband. “Almost as much as I love you.” you tilted your chin up, and Arthur took it for the invitation it was and snagged your lips in a sweet but loving kiss. 

Arthur broke the kiss with a hiss, and you looked down to see the kitten hanging onto Arthur's hand, claws piercing the wool gloves while tiny fangs tried to nom on his fingers. You giggled and detached the fearsome cat from your husband's glove. 

As you held up the little kitten it let out a big yawn, tiny fangs glinting in the candle light. This time when you set him back in your lap, he curled up in the fabric of your skirt. 

“What are you gonna name him?” 

“I don't know,” you hummed, studying the little kitten. “I was thinking Ash, or Cinder to match his coat, and since he was found by a burned down homestead. Or maybe Coal, since he's a Christmas gift, but I've been very naughty this year.” You giggled. 

“No denying that,” Arthur teased, bending down and nipping at your jaw; the only thing he could reach with your scarf covering your neck.

“Thank you, Arthur,” you sighed, leaning against him.

“Merry Christmas, darlin'.” 

[thorst]

I never asked for company (but I'm not asking you to leave)

ii. The Naming of Cowboys is a Serious Matter

Arthur Morgan/F Reader • Pre-game setting, modified canon later • Mature 18+: canon-typical violence, slow burn, eventual smut, mid to high honour Arthur Morgan • >3000 words, ongoing • Chapter 1

Summary: Bounty hunting: It's a hell of a way to make a living. Travel the country, see the sights, give rotten folk their just deserts- and the pay ain't half bad, either. Of course, when another bounty hunter shows up at your latest job, that's less than ideal.

Excerpt:

For all the violent resistance that came before it, the apprehension of Joseph Kelly was rather a sad and quiet thing, in the end. You and your serendipitous associate burst through the soft and rotting door to the guard tower in a shower of mildewy splinters. Silence met you there. You stopped. In the corner, covered in blood, Joseph Kelly clutched at the body of his last remaining comrade-in-arms; for the young outlaw was clearly dead. The eight-fingered man does not raise his pistol to you, as you cross the room rope in hand. Does not protest as you kick away his weapon to bind his hands; seems to be about to though, when you push the lad's body away to pull the man to his feet. In the end he makes no sound at all, though his eyes snag on the body as you frogmarch him from the room. Your companion is silent as the grave, his face hard and inscrutable. You suspect that he was unsettled somehow by what you found there, but he is a difficult man to read - at least having known him for so short a span of time.

Read the full work on AO3

[wintersongstress]

A Dream’s Winding Way

Part I — A Beetle in a Matchbox 

Pairing: Arthur Morgan (high honor) x Female Reader

Summary: For as long as you could remember, you dreamt of falling in a love so whole and pure it was worth enduring the many griefs in your life. But the world, cold and cruel as it was, robbed that dream from you, and you believed you would forever be broken until you met a man who was scarred in his own way.

Word Count: 9.2k

Warnings: sexual assault, grief (past loss of parents/caretaker). 

A/N: This story is about surviving sexual assault. Over the past two years I’ve been writing this an effort to cope and process my own experience, but I also set out to write this for others who have suffered this as well. I wanted to craft a story that explored healing, finding a partner who understands consent, and feeling safe with them. Not every reader may be in the headspace to read this as I deal heavily with the wave of emotions that comes after an attack. The attack itself I did not desire to go into violent detail of, but it is there and it may be triggering. 

Regardless, I want any reader who decides they aren’t in the right place to read this because of the triggers to know that healing is possible, that you are not broken, ugly, or worthless, and no matter how much trauma has taken from you, you can still live a good life. Arthur Morgan is a comfort character I imagine would be that partner who understands boundaries and vulnerability and sees a woman he holds feelings for as more than her pain.

Part Two | AO3 Link

In memory, the woolly tufts of a moon-white dandelion swayed in a long departed breeze. You held it close, contemplating your heart’s desire amidst the babble of brook and the music of birdsong.

I want my first time to be with someone I’ve given my heart to.

The wind sifted through your skirts and the trees, meanwhile the deepest hope of your heart unfurled with a wishful blow until all that remained of the dandelion was a bald stem. You cast it off into a pebbled stream for the water to claim. The seeds coasted in the air and a motherly breeze carried them in its gentle wake, cradling your wish to the future day it could come true. No spider webs ensnared them, and the canopy parted to admit their passage into the turquoise sky. On that bank you stood on the cusp of womanhood, your world lush with possibility and untouched by tragedy, allowing your young heart to nurture such a naïve fantasy in the spring sunshine. 

                                                            ~ * ~

                                      ~ I — A Beetle in a Matchbox ~

Sawtooth Mountain Range, Idaho. 1891

 In the before, life was a fairytale. It was rising with the sun to a land still cold from a night beneath the mountains’ shadow, where wildflowers purpled the meadows and dawn trailed amber fingers through the abundant evergreens. Every day you opened your kitchen door little changed. Each morning, before you unlatched the garden gate, you enjoyed the music of singing birds alone, breathed in deep the thick and clean scent of pine, and cherished every place the sunlight touched in this little, precious corner of the world. From spring thaw to fall frost, the morning grass beneath your lively step held pinhead glitters of dew, dampening your hem as you would amble to the chicken coop, basket in arm and contented at the sight of a tawny rabbit nipping at the vegetable patch. It was the rewarding routine and rustic simplicity of tending a goat and digging your fingers in the fresh soil of your garden, the enjoyment of friendly society while working at the hotel in town and the privilege of sharing a cottage with your grandmother—the only family you had left.

A few years after you were born you lost your parents to cholera. You had no memory, fond or otherwise, tethered to them and the objects they left behind to unfailingly inflict the salt and sting of grief. Tucked inside your blouse you kept your mother’s ring on a chain, and on your bedside table a portrait of them sat framed and propped. The coolness of the metal and the sepia tone of the photograph made you smile with gratitude for what pieces of them remained. Pieces that were soft and unserrated, that you could hold on to, thumb the edges, and feel only the smooth ease of kinship. But the most comforting reminder of them all was your grandmother.

To you, she was a soft-spoken and welcoming woman, one who had lived a full life beneath the sun by the token of her laugh lines and the fan of wrinkles beside each of her eyes. With others she was sensible and solemn, and not a person to scam or underestimate.

Few saw the side of her you did: the kindhearted woman whose hair you helped pin up in a nautilus of braids each morning, whose dainty collar was kept mathematically straight. She often took you through the forests and taught you all about herbs and curative plants, instructing you to gather the roots of ginseng and the ruby heads of yarrow for teas and tonics and you took an instant proclivity towards it. She gifted you with a stack of field guilds on mushrooms, wildflowers, trees, birds, and everything else within the forest to prepare you. With a cattleman stowed on your hip she trusted you to venture out alone, and your horse, Willa, carried back your fragrant pickings in large, leather sacks that hung from her saddle on the path home. In the evenings, through the space in the boughs overhead, a scarf of smoke greeted you from the cobbled chimney of your home, where inside a stew pot waited, simmering with the fragrant steams of vegetable broth.

Those were treasured times, and you would never fully appreciate the true goodness of those days until your grandmother passed away, because for as much as she taught you to watch out for yourself, you still had so much to learn about the dangers of the world.

The people from town came by to offer their condolences and casseroles, and Mr. Greely gave you a week’s pay and time to grieve. You would get back on your feet, you knew, but you were grateful for everyone’s generosity and sympathies.

Winter came, a season of most cold reflection, and the solitude of trackless snows resembled the emptiness in you. Food turned to ash in your mouth, the pale and placid blue of the sunrise on mountain snow stirred no awe in your eyes, and you drifted through life as if it were a waking dream. Loneliness was a pit, and long had you trailed the span of its walls with unfeeling hands to a degree of familiarity and cold comfort, circling, circling, listless and hollow. 

As snow did, melancholy mellowed with spring. A day came when you awoke and opened the windows of the cottage to a renewed earth, wherein the singing liberation of fresh streams and rosy birds suffused the air and lifted your spirits. A breeze stirred the curtains. A cloud melted in the sky. The serenest of sunshine warmed your cheeks and a wind cleared your lungs, and each breath you inhaled was like a sip of chamomile tea as it swept its balmy way through your body. Venturing out, steps bedded by clovers, the water you drew from the mossy well held your reflection, and within its silver glimmers you glimpsed a girl who had grown into womanhood and aged a year in the space of a season. You were not the only one to notice this change.

With the spring the surrounding woods grew replete with game, drawing in hunters from all around, of which included one familiar face: the town Sheriff. He rode a buckskin horse with syrup brown eyes and a tail so long it brushed the earth; a wild stallion he tamed himself. The horse’s dappled flank often carried deer pelts on his way back from the deep forest. A trail wound not far from your cottage and he loped up one day, checking on you. You spied the old cedar stock of his long gun, stowed in his saddle holster as he pulled up the reins, the fringe of his suede jacket rippling as he jounced to a stop.

A howdy was exchanged as you balanced a basket of currants on your hip. Hand cupped against your brow, the sun beamed warm through the straw of your hat and you offered a polite smile to the man with a neatly trimmed black mustache, his face otherwise clean-shaven. A few minutes of amiable conversation ensued—him discussing the heavy snowfall of the winter and you assuring him you managed the harsh season. He took a more meaningful tone when he inquired about living on your own, if you had a means to protect yourself, and if you happened upon any unfriendly-looking persons. You knew well how dangerous it was for a woman to live by herself, in the wilderness or otherwise, regardless of the presence of your father’s old hunting rifle mounted above the fireplace. His concern was not unwarranted, after all you supposed it was his job to keep the town and the people in it safe. Knowing that someone in the world was watching out for you was a small relief you welcomed, but you wished you peered past the cloak of concern to unveil the underlying intention behind his appraisal of your competence before it was too late.

He visited weekly. Oftentimes he brought a bundle of wildflowers he had collected on his journey over; bluebells, because they were his late wife’s favorite. And no shortage of compliments accompanied him, either. Both you accepted awkwardly, not used to receiving this sort of attention as you handled the uprooted, bent stalks with the utmost care. He was on his way with a tip of his Stetson before long, and you pushed all thoughts of men far from the forefront of your mind as his horse’s hooves thumped off into the waning afternoon.

You wished you paid more attention when the Sheriff spoke of his wife’s passing and tried to relate his grief to yours. He loved her, and the naïve part of your mind believed the love in his heart would remain and never dwindle, because the love you held for your family endured despite the tragedies. He made you laugh on occasion, made you look forward to his visits, and worst of all, he got you to trust him. But he began to ask things of you, about you. Questions too personal. Would you be looking to get married since you were of age? Were you sweet on anyone? Questions that made you stammer in a way he mistook for something other than being flustered.

For as long as you dreamed, you dreamt of what falling in love would be like. It was the momentous landmark you looked forward to reaching the most in life. Something worth treading the painful slopes and crumbling scree of loss. To disclose that dream to him would be to give the wrong person the right piece of yourself, so you guarded your answers to his intrusive questions with ambiguity. He would huff, thwarted, but somehow, in some inadvertent way, he took it as encouragement to think his forwardness was welcome, because maybe he never would have come to you that night.

An invincible storm had rolled in. Rain poured wild and cold against the windows in veins of silver mined from the ore of thunderclouds, battering the panes and drumming the roof. Dark through the wilderness shone the sheer slanting waves of the downpour, lashing against the trees until their branches bowed in submission, moonlight devoid throughout. Flows of water sluiced through the baskets of geraniums hanging in the eaves and ran off the shingles, splashing down upon the ground in rippling puddles that danced with each new drop. Droplets and branches tapped against the other side of the cool glass against your hand, meanwhile, at your back, your dinner popped and hissed in its pot. You turned and drifted away from the window pane at length, and let the lacy curtain fall back in place.  

After supping, you draped a knitted throw around your shoulders and settled near the fire at last, to doze and drift in the peace of falling rain while tucked inside, safe and warm. As logs of cedar and birch snapped, sadness tapped against the window of your mind, as it often did, and your gaze was lost to the flames in rumination, the book in your lap forgotten as you reckoned with your circumstances. You were as content as you were able to be without the ones you had lost, but in the hollow of your heart your grief was a wound that never healed and yawned at times. Your grandmother’s perfume of heavy, dark red roses still clung to the soft weft of the blanket you held close—a smell that made you tender towards the past. So many traces of their life upon the Earth remained. 

A horse’s whinny broke your reverie. Your book fell as you jolted from the chair, seeking out your gun on the table before investigating the disturbance. Willa was situated in the small stable, and if someone was outside—

Rigorous knocking rumbled through your door frame, followed by a familiar voice, pleading.

You set the gun down and yanked open the storm-pelted door. At the same time, a boulder of thunder rolled through the night. Across the land lightning flashed through the sky to illuminate the weathered face standing at your threshold.

“Sheriff? What on Earth—“

He barged past you without invitation, shotgun ready in hand. For all of an instant you stood frozen in bewilderment, until the gusts of wind billowing in prompted you to shut the door and your gaping mouth. He was on a mission, it appeared, because he ignored your protestations.

The Sheriff blustered his way through your tranquil home in a whirring of spurs and a splatter of muck. Dirt ankle-deep caked his riding boots, his feet muddier than a pig’s hooves as he searched about the main room in a frenzy, yanking open doors and shoving aside furniture. Each of his intrusive footsteps quaked the floors, shaking the fine dishware in its special cabinet, the copper pots hanging above the dry sink, and the shelves of jarred fruits and jams. He carried rainwater and the look of a storm in his wake, shattering the peace you found earlier this evening completely. From his ebony gun belt a hunting knife and a freshly-oiled Schofield hung prepared beside his Sheriff’s star.

You stood waiting, arms folded, for an explanation.

When the last place for him to search were the floorboards you stood upon, he sagged and sighed with relief, deflated. He removed his hat, his face no longer obscured to reveal the grim line of his mouth and a hard determination simmering in the umber of his eyes. At last, he explained himself.

He said he came as soon as he heard to make sure you were safe. Safe from what? you asked. Bad men were about, he stated. Outlaws, murderous train robbers and thieves wanted across two state lines. Men devoid of a human conscience. The words sunk in with a weighty silence of understanding, silence in which the rain filled and your imagination could wander to gruesome places. Strangers seldom passed through here, let alone outlaws, you commented.

“Now you understand my lack of decorum. I hope you can forgive my negligent manners.”

Solemnly, you nodded. The hairs along your arm had risen, skin prickled, and you sought the ring hanging from your neck out of habit. To hold it against your heart and trace its comforting shape kept you grounded in moments of uncertainty.

In his hands he fiddled with the brim of his hat. A puddle formed on the floor where he stood.

“You must be chilled to the bone,” you ventured. “I’ll pour you some whiskey.”

“That’d be mighty fine of you, miss.”

Your hospitality indicated a hesitant welcome, but the Sheriff was clueless to your apprehension. The rain subsided to a light tapping on the roof and window panes; he could have his drink and be on his way momentarily. You turned to busy yourself with finding a glass. Meanwhile, the click of his spurs trailed over to the wall hook. Fabric rustled as he hung up his Stetson and shed his dripping coat.

With no electricity, you relied on oil lamps to keep your cottage illuminated. The steady, amber glow cast from the etched glass sconces always imbued the acorn brown stain of the woodwork with warmth and charm. However, the Sheriff’s presence in your home inverted all the comfort you found within it. The dried herbs hanging in the rafters offered no rich and earthy smell, the bowl of fruit on the counter promised no sweet taste in the gleam of their ripe skins. But you ignored all of these perceptions and the insect crawl of wariness creeping along your spine and retrieved the bottle of rye whiskey you kept for medicinal purposes.

You kept your back to the Sheriff as you perused your selection of glassware for a suitable tumbler. Touch skipping lightly along the wood, dust coated your fingertips as you drew from the top shelf. In the pit of your stomach dread curdled. Outside, the storm had lessened, but another one of unease was brewing inwardly. Through the reflection of the cabinet doors you caught the Sheriff’s stare as you shut them, latched to your form. The shameless indulgence in his gaze provoked a flare of ire through you and you cleared your throat with an air of reproach.

“Where was this gang of Dutch van der Linde’s spotted?” You turned to him, shoulders and chin raised in an effort to appear untroubled. The question hung for a moment as the Sheriff considered where to place his undue shotgun. The stock settled against the table leg and he straightened at your approach, smoothing a hand over the broom of his mustache.

“Near Taylor Ranch,” he answered.

You blinked. Without a hat, shadows no longer concealed his pockmarked cheeks and the bushy, ungroomed lintels of his eyebrows. His shirt was wrinkled and damp from riding in the storm, clinging to his skin. The top two buttons were uncharacteristically undone, peeking wiry chest hair.

You had paused, but not because of his unkempt appearance. The whiskey shivered in tones of gold and brass as you set it on the table absently, along with the glass. Light from a lone, flickering candle caught the ginger liquid like a brazier.

“That’s only two miles from here.”

A log fell in the fireplace, spent, embers spitting.

“Indeed.”

He thumbed the curling petal of one of his bluebells, a faint smile dangling on the corner of his mouth. You had arranged the latest cluster of his in a porcelain pitcher set on your table. Below, your eyes dropped to where a few of the flowers had withered and fallen upon the table runner. 

Pondering, wood creaked as you retreated to the fireplace, leaving him to his drink and odd fascinations. Meanwhile your fingers worried with your cuffs, twisted in your skirt as you swirled in the eddy of your thoughts. The Taylors. Closing your eyes you remembered the smell of their home: fresh baked bread and strawberries. All of your visits had the flavor of berries and apples. A cross-stitched picture of a goose wearing a bonnet hung in their window and welcomed any who knocked on their door, which Mrs. Taylor would swing open with a smile and a gingham apron around her waist. 

Though she had a square jaw and chapped lips, crow’s feet and a stern demeanor, her hugs were the warmest and most welcoming. No one was a stranger at her doorstep for long, for she was quick to invite them in and fuss over a pot of tea and offer her finest plate stacked with shortbreads. Her motherly hospitality and friendliness of heart healed a wound your parents' loss opened. Taylor Ranch was a place you sought in the hours you yearned for solitude and contemplation, amity and freedom. Within their prized orchards resided plentiful avenues for you to explore in the summer and stroll through in the rustling Octobers, twisting from the trees the honey-sweet pendants of autumn to bake into pies. 

Marveling at the filigree of branches through which the sun cast its lemony light, it was in this enchanting place you first met the Taylors’ youngest son, Gideon. And what a meeting it was, all those years ago: he fell for you, literally—off an orchard ladder to a ground strewn with windfall apples, his collarbone snapping in the process. 

In a rush you swept to his side, apples thudding to the leafy ground. The boy roiled in pain, his face contorting, and you rose to action. His family came running when you called for help, and you did your best to haul him back to the house until his older brother retrieved him from where he leaned against your shoulder. Together you gingerly delivered him to the sofa in the sitting room and his father galloped to fetch the town doctor. 

You stayed at his side, this strange boy, noticed the dimples set in his pale cheeks and his russet hair—the rings of which his mother swept aside soothingly. Such soft features garnered an unfamiliar attention from within you. You had stared. 

The doctor arrived and set the bone, the grimacing sound and sight of which you closed your eyes against. Standing aside uselessly, you fidgeted with your mother’s ring for lack of occupation. Mrs. Taylor registered your worry and assured you that you were blameless for his injury. 

For days you thought of him. Though no words had passed between you, the glance you first shared with each other stilled time and lingered in a meadow of memory. Curiosity was all it was—towards a feeling, an interest in another. Gideon was the first boy to capture your attention in such a way. 

At the end of that week you returned to the ranch bearing a basket of sourdough biscuits. Slathered in honey, warm from the oven, your recipe yielded the fluffiest batch perfect for sharing. When she answered the door Mrs. Taylor had the most knowing smile on her face before calling over her shoulder. Gideon appeared a few moments later, a sling around his arm and a thumb hooked in his suspender. He had a hard time meeting your eyes and shifted on his feet when you offered to lunch with him. You sat on the porch together, enjoying the sight of chickens scratching at the fenced-off squares of dirt, of barn cats lazing in the sun, observing the last of autumn’s spell fading in the air. 

You visited him while he recovered, kindling something pure and sweet with him. He admired you a great deal. But afterwards, when he was well again and you had no excuse to see him other than the obvious, a kiss was sealed. How peculiar and unexpected it was, the moment he leaned towards you. Sitting beneath a giant oak tree while acorns dug into your hands, you found you dreaded it: the nearness of him. In your mind a kiss was a lucent dream of falling blossoms and a soft blue haze of light, like the very action were a twist of a key, unlocking your soul to another. At least, that was what you had wanted it to be, had always imagined it.  

When Gideon the boy kissed you it was a wet slide of his mouth—hungry, rushing, pressing hard and then sucking while his hands groped, seeking parts of your body you had yet to grow into. You sat frozen, eyes wide, not knowing how to move as his tongue roamed. So you took it. Afterwards, you wiped the ring of spittle around your mouth with your sleeve. He had smirked as he leaned away, and you no longer admired the dimples in his cheeks. You made an excuse to leave and when you returned home your grandmother asked if something was wrong, but you never overcame the shame of it to tell her. 

A revulsion built and simmered within you for the next few weeks. In town—for you had ceased to visit the ranch—he would press you against the clapboard behind the general store and beg for your lips and your hand to hold as he humped your hips, and he would tell you what he wanted you to wear when he next saw you. He was a foolish, over-eager boy, and he had no notion of romance or how to properly treat the one he was fond of. He knew so little about you and what your heart wanted, and you were disinclined to share any more of yourself with him. Unable to bear it any longer, you broke his heart, and he blamed you for every unhappiness henceforth. 

Throughout the passage of ten years his face and the unwelcome manner of his caresses remained unbearable to picture. No longer a boy, Gideon had grown from a clingy and imprudent child into a snobby and spiteful specimen of a man; an arrogant prig who filled his role of deputy at the Sheriff’s office exceptionally. You had long cast him from the forefront of your mind, but the Sheriff’s mentioning of the Taylor’s home and the threat posed to it brought the unpleasant recollections rushing back, and it took a moment before you recovered your composure. 

The heat of the fireplace fanned across your cheeks. In the night thunder cracked, calling you back into the atmosphere of the room, where you knelt at a stone hearth, ash on your sleeves. Wood gathered, logs clunked in the grate and scattered sparks as you tossed them in. Your thoughts of the past reached a conclusion at the glug of liquor filling a glass; with your back to your guest you broke the long lasting silence. 

“You should be checking on them, not me. Are you rounding up a posse?” 

A pouring of liquid answered. His eager lips approached the brim of the glass and swallowed it as if it were a fount of water in a desert. You turned to him as he filled it again. 

“I can’t do anything in this storm, and neither can those reprobates,” he pulled out a chair at the table, settling into it as happily as a worm in an apple. “‘Sides, Ned has hired guns and four strong boys to protect his property, whereas you‘re all alone out here—” A cough interrupted him. He blew an appreciative whistle once his throat was clear, sniffing the bottle. “This is some strong stuff you got here.”

Irritation flared within you at his blatant display of indecorum, evident by the propping up of his booted feet on your table. With his bandana pulled down low, the V of his throat gleamed with sweat as he tipped the full glass back. His Adam's apple bobbed, big as a turkey egg.

“Sheriff, while I am grateful for the trouble you’ve…” A drop of mud splattered on the table from his boot. You blinked at it. “—taken on my behalf, I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.” Not bothering to hide your annoyance you poked and prodded the logs in the grate with a fire poker, leveling his gaze afterwards. His expression held not a drop of seriousness or concern.  

“I can see that,” he chuckled. The key of his voice rang clear with condescension. With a great sigh you hung the poker back on its stand and dusted off your hands, looking about the room with a curled lip. His earlier theatrics had displaced much of your furniture. 

Your throw blanket laid in a soft puddle on the floor. You bent and folded it in a neat square, draping it over the back of your armchair, and setting that straight, too.  

“You don’t need to worry. I’ll make sure those men don’t come near here. By high-noon tomorrow, they’ll be human fruit for the buzzards.” Trouble must have lined your expression, for the aura of pride radiating from his demeanor softened, and you found his gaze fixed moonily upon you. His words painted a grisly image of the scaffold in your mind, which dispelled with a shake of your head. 

“What are they looking for, do you think? There’s nothing for men like that out here.”  

You wandered over to the window. Behind you, the Sheriff capped the whiskey. 

“The law is after them. They pulled a heist near Salt Lake and now they’re on the run with some big score, looking for a place to hide and wait for the heat to die down. But they’re fools,” he huffed, gritting his teeth. “And get this, they apparently give their money back to poor folk, like some sort of Robin Hood gang. They think they’re hero outlaws doing good deeds.”

You had no idea what to think of that. The clock on the wall ticked. Some minutes had passed since the last rumble of thunder, and your hand had naturally sought the ring hanging around your neck in the course of staring off into the night; the rain only pattered, no longer drumming hard on the roof. 

“The rain is stopping,” you said. 

Chair legs scuffed across the floor. “I suppose I’ve worn out my welcome?” 

Turning, you rallied a tepid smile. He had risen to his full height, his clothes still damp and wrinkled. Looking at you, he passed a knuckle across his lips, the hairs of his mustache scritching and the gold of his wedding band flashing. Across the room dark eyes descended from your face, fixing on the hand near your breast. You dropped it and squared your shoulders. To bring his attention back to your face, you called out his name in question.

After all of these years, you wished you could have forgotten it. It would have been a small mercy to your memory.

“I’m sorry, I forget myself sometimes. It’s just…you’re so pretty, standing there in the firelight like that.” 

His voice was but a murmur. It was so strange—hearing those words from him. They were supposed to be soft, and from any other man they could be, but his brash voice and hungry stare ruined anything gentle about them. Like putting lace gloves on a fishmonger, they were all wrong and unsuitable for him. They prickled the cold kind of goosebumps down your arms, making you shiver like a rabbit caught in a trap.

At your speechlessness, he took a step in your direction.

“Sheriff,” you started, putting your hand up. Pressing on, you measured the tone of your voice to be as low and as serious as you could muster. “I think you’ve had a drop too many.”

He smirked at you, hooking his thumbs in his belt, beside his badge and his gun. One of his eyes crinkled and the crooked slant of his mouth revealed the stains of tobacco on his teeth. 

“No,” he continued on. His steps, as they advanced, grew more condemning than the ones before it, maintaining his slow and leisurely gait. “I’ve noticed it before. I’ve noticed for a long time.” 

The truth. So plain before you; it dawned dreadfully like a blood-red sun at sea, shone clear like coins in the murk of a well. The authenticity behind his hebdomadal visits and floral offerings rippled into clarity with those few words: for a long time. How could your eyes have looked everywhere but at the black heart of him? That moment, too, was no exception. You sought salvation from the sight of him by glancing around the room, meanwhile chiding yourself for not being more distrustful and vigilant and for overlooking his true intentions. 

Graciously, his foot knocked against something. You caught your breath. For a moment, you had the chance to scope out your options, and put some distance between you and him. 

The Sheriff picked up the object impeding his path. Your book—the one you had been trying to read before his fists pummeled your door. The embossed title flashed beneath his passing thumb. 

Wuthering Heights. 

Long ago the thundering storm and crackle of flame ebbed away, especially within those pages. Branches captured in the sway of a breeze adorned the cover modestly for such a tale of the nature of love and bitterness. 

“You’re lonelier than I thought,” he said, quiet and drifting like an afterthought. You tensed. “There’s another reason why I came here tonight.”

He set the book aside and stood. The sideboard rattled as your back bumped against it. 

“I think you should leave.���

“Leave? Is that what you really want?” 

In one devastating blink, he was before you, so close the thin and pale violet skin beneath his eyes was visible. The fumes of alcohol on his breath stung your nostrils and you wrinkled away as he tipped the sharp beak of his nose to sniff the crown of your head. 

You could not help the sharp breath you took at his sordid deeds, the sound of which only pulled his gaze to your quivering bodice and your knuckles, tightened on the edge of the sideboard. He had you blocked in, like a beetle trapped in a matchbox, skittering from corner to hopeless corner. He licked his lips. 

“How long are you going to play at this?” A touch meant to be soft and reassuring singed your wrist. “Always looking so pretty and proper, the picture of a perfect wife,” the touch of his hand turned into a vice grip, so total and absolute your fingers could not move. A numb feeling overtook your limbs, your senses held hostage by fear. “Then actin’ all innocent as if you don’t want me too.” 

Another touch, this time seizing your cheek coldly as the statue that you wish you were not. At the imminence of his hot, wet mouth seeking to devour yours you found it within yourself to move. A wave of urgency swelled up and carried you away, towards the door, but he had you in his grasp before any hopeful seed of escape could be planted. 

The kitchen table with its cheerful lace runner and softly burning candle jostled as your front was bent over it, knocking the pitcher of bluebells to the floor. Porcelain cracked and you watched the water pool, petals floating, darkening the wood, and you wished the night that passed would fall apart into similar pieces, to leave the memories scattered and unstrung like the beads of a broken necklace across a floor. 

“What’s it going to take with you,” he had hissed in your ear, his spittled words dripping black, wicked and vile. Metal jingled. Fabric lifted. Cold air met your legs. Buttons freed their hold.

Stop. 

“I always knew you were a—”

Stop remembering. 

“—pretty thing.”

Absorbed in his vice, he little cared for his actions, entranced by his insidious deed. Foul words and heavy breaths hissed through his teeth and echoed for years after. 

Your mind left your body. But you remembered all of it. 

And you were so tired of remembering. You hated how easy it was for him to take everything from you. You hated the lust that drove him, your body for being an object of his desire, and yourself for being unable to stop any of it from happening.

The ringing report of rifle fire split the night, and it was the only thing that made him stop. But the damage was done. He tucked his shirttail in, buckled his belt. Left; a promise to return the next evening finalized by a vulgar squeeze to your backside, stinging your flesh. 

Wood scraped along your nails as you slid to the floor, clutching the table leg, trembling. At once, with an empty stare and shaking limbs, tears blurred your sight as all of your remaining strength relinquished. You curled into your body, disconsolate. Hugged your knees. Sobs, sobs, sobs wrenched your jaw apart in mourning what was lost and what was done to you.

It would follow your every other thought, that scene of despair in the lonely dark of night. You were cold for so long afterwards; for months, in a way no blanket or bowl of soup could remedy. The misery nested so deep within you. Further than the marrow of your bones. 

Every day for the rest of your life you would remember his hands. On you, squeezing, guided and distorted by depraved intent. Darker and drearer fell the night, and the full tide of your thoughts consumed you in a bitter, burning woe. 

Until dawn there was nothing but the pale, dead gold of the moon. You saw nothing. You felt nothing. Your mind only replayed it all, over and over. 

The violent tint of dawn crept in between the curtains. On the end of your lashes the last of your tears hung, and as the light came upon you, so softly bright, the deep-welling sorrow that sunk your heart yawned into something else. An emotion that braced your hands against the wood floor, collected you to your knees, and drove you shuffling forward. Shame. 

In your bedroom you gathered soap and new clothes into a basket before stepping foot outside. A glorious morning announced itself in every sound, from the sweetest music filling the trees, to the wind that gently stirred their nascent leaves. But it all fell on deaf ears. Your senses were lost to grim contemplation. 

Along a forest path rippling waters wandered. To their source they led, and alongside its flow you followed. 

Ties loosened, you dropped your skirts to your feet at the riverbank. All over, your skin spidered with memories of how he had touched you. The fastenings of your clothes came undone mechanically. You pretzeled arms behind your back to yank at your shirt buttons until all of your body was bare to the misty morning. Silver water whispered its coldness between your toes as you stepped forward onto the pebbled, silty shore, walking without seeing, feeling nothing but the cold encasing your ankles, your knees, rising up until the river embraced your shoulders in a purging chill. With a breath you dipped under. In a blink you escaped. 

Beneath the surface, the feelings and the memories dimmed. Slippery rocks brushed your feet and you grasped a slimy branch to sink farther. Little white bubbles floated up as you let the wintry temperature of the water numb your mind into blessed silence. The sensation calmed you, and that was all you wanted; the only thing you could seek within your tremorous reach. Quiet, and a state of unfeeling. Until that moment all of your thoughts were a repetition of the same statement of instability and unease: I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. Teeth chattering; every pore over your body squirmed with the taint of his violation every step of the way to the river. Only beneath the current had it stopped. At last you ceased to think. 

Your heart seized and your lungs begged for air. And again, something brought you up. From the kitchen floor, from the bed of the river. With a gasp you broke the surface and your eyes fixed upon the sky. The great blue bowl of it was ringed with treetops, eagles circling—the world around you, going on as it should while droplets trickled down your spine. Clouds of river foam gathered around the stagnant driftwood you stepped over while treading to the bank. Taking a seat upon a rock, you scoured your limbs with soap until the skin squeaked and your fingers pruned, the bubbles drifting downstream. From your hand, ice cold, help deep in the river, the water fell over your knees and your shins, down your shoulders and in the hollow of your back, cleansing and numbing. With the print of the Sheriff’s fingers no longer pressed into your skin, you dried and dressed, ready to face the scene inside the cottage once again. 

Too often in this world girls become women before they are ready, before they are strong enough, before they know enough to endure all of the trials womanhood entails. Losing your family to sickness so young, being on your own completely, you thought your world was as bleak as it could be. Until the night that passed—when the universe peeled back another layer of darkness to descend over your life.

Upon approaching the front gate of the only home you had ever known, something changed. The familiar consolation of its shelter was absent. No smile tugged your lips at the dance of dragonflies in the air, at the tulip bulbs in your garden plot sprouting toothy stalks from the dirt. 

Within each season resided a singular wealth unique to the forest, the remembrances of which carved fond grooves in your mind to touch over in times you sought comfort, the niches imbued with a sense of belonging and safety. You reached inwards for them. 

For the trinkets of winter, silver, blue, and white—the sugaring of snow, the glittering of frost, the river’s music silenced by ice. Leading to the light of the sun warming once again, stout icicles dripping onto emerald moss, coaxing the golden crocus from the thaw. How, slowly, the days grow longer, April rain moistening the lichen on the roof tiles, darkening the soil, spawning the green scent of an Earth renewed. 

It was as if every page of memory were ripped from the book of your life, leaving an empty tome. There was no story left for you here. 

The door threw a trapezoid of light when you opened it. Standing in the threshold, a five-leaf cluster wandered down from the sky and landed on the floorboard, dotted damply with the night’s rain. Inside, everything was the same, yet changed, like some place in a dream. The house was as dark as a tomb, haunted with the echoes and dust of people taken from you, and someone who took from you. Nothing but a vacant chair welcomed you.  

On the mantle rested trinkets from your parents. A pocket mirror of your mother’s, silver and elegant, and a rosewood pipe of your father’s, smooth and genteel. To hold them in your palm, curl your fingers over their edges and clasp them to your skin as if wringing out the last ghosts of their touch, as you so often did, would only bring you to your knees. You needed to move forward and leave it all behind. You needed—

A chip crunched beneath your foot. You stepped away, revealing the obliterated piece of vase. What a helpless, fragile vessel. Admired throughout its lifetime, only to be thrust into ruin. Your hands shook beside you, the bones of your fingers tingling with riotous nerves all the while anguish swelled in your chest to a volcanic boiling point. 

A wrenching, piercing roar split your throat apart. 

In a rush the desecrated table toppled over. Screaming, you kicked it harder and harder until your toenails bled and the whole thing scudded ten feet across the floor. Your arms swung wildly about with each effort, fighting the images of yourself bent over it, helpless and frozen, and unable to beat them back. More and more you screamed with outrage, but it was not enough. You were not strong enough. Your limbs alone could not prevail. 

No man would ever know of the darkness their touch leaves behind. Meanwhile you would carry it forever.

It was not fair. 

Your rage conducted you outside, sustained you in the search of some outlet, some tool to deliver greater destruction than your feeble body could convey. Leaving the table behind, pools of last night’s rain splashed beneath your blazing step on the path to the shed where you kept your father’s axe. Jabbering cardinals flurried away to the trees at your storming approach and the sun graced your forehead through the lacings of the leaves they found shelter in. 

Ordinarily, the sight of so much emergent green abounding after one rainfall would stoke wonder in you. In one place, in one wind, the new leaves sang wavily while a cloud passed over the glare of the sun, bringing a cooler depth to the shades of the earth until all brightened and warmed again once the cloud melted away. After the longest winter, it was what your soul needed to fill the holes in your heart. Grief was becoming a part of your landscape, however. You stopped short on the path.

A wind-cloven branch warped the roof of the shed. It must have fallen in the night. The severed limb was great and heavy, and in the place where it was once joined to its life force the splintered wood was a tender, meaty white, darker in its center. Bugs skittered along the scales of lichen patching their once steady home; in days the leaves would wither and wilt.

With gravity and a few tugs the branch came down. As it lay upon the stone path, uprooted, your simmering rage found its outlet. This was something you could destroy. You reached inside the shed, and with it in your hand, the axe dragged across the ground. The curved edge shone sharp in the sun as it scraped along stone.  

Raising it above your shoulder, your limbs quaked before you released it all at last. Swing after swing, hack after hack, again and again you heaved the hatchet into the log, pieces splintering as memories of him came free as well. Him, his voice. How his acts of kindness were all a lie—a ploy to get you where he wanted you. Bent over a table. 

Crack. 

Alone. No one to help you. First Gideon with his groping hands, then the Sheriff with the smoldering fire in his eyes. 

A split. 

You braced your foot against the branch and twisted the hatchet free. Deeper and deeper down into the wood you burrowed, gathering venom with each reflection. As the branch fell apart and wood chunks flew your resolve stitched itself together. 

He.

 Swing. Your skin is so soft here.

Had.

  Breathe in. Forget his words.

No.

 Bury them. 

Right.

With a momentous strike the tree limb cracked asunder. A final scream tore your throat raw. The birds split free from the sunlit canopy, and the forest was still as your shriek petered to a shriveling wail, then nothing. 

The line of thought looping through your head quieted too. The uncertainty and fear of not knowing what to do, how to move forward from this, was gone. While the thread of anger and veins of sadness and shame still pulsed within, it all flowed together, steady and purposeful. The axe hung from your hand, dangled a scant inch from the ground, and your breathing relaxed as the sweat dried cool on your brow. 

Lightning had struck this tree twice before. Each fracture diminished its once formidable heights, an august maple which sheltered your childhood in the sweltering summers and cast familiar shadows in your room at bleary midnights. But every spring it flourished in a robe of green, the ruptures healing, new branches broadening their offshoots, and marched onwards to the grand vault of the heavens. However lightning-struck, it lived on, not dying of ruined hopes alone. 

The time to dwell had passed. You were done crying. You were done blaming yourself. And you were done with asking yourself why. What you were ready to do was protect yourself from ever getting hurt again. You could not let the pain stop you. So you finished chopping up the tree to break down into firewood later. 

A whicker sounded from the stable. Willa, your sweet, gentle mare. Until that moment you had forgotten her. Putting the axe aside, in a dash the door clanged open at your hand and you found her thoughtful eyes in the slanting ribbon of daylight. You sighed in relief. Safe and sound, your only friend left in the world shuffled in her stall, the space smelling of wood and hay. You approached her with an open palm, smoothing it over her black and white coat.

“Hey, sweetie.”

Animals could be so intelligent and perceptive at times. Willa nudged your shoulder, sensing the sorrow molding your heart, and you pressed your cheek to her warm neck. Smelling sweetly of grass and hay, her black mane slipped through the comb of your fingers like a shadow melting back into shade. You drew it away to uncover the white star on the center of her forehead. Her long lashes dipped somberly. You took a comb from its niche behind a joist and brushed along her coat for a long while. Without words, you found a way to speak to her of the events that unfolded the night before, thinking of them deeply and shutting your eyes as she remained close. 

In the evening he would return. And the next, and the one after. On and on it would go, and you could live a whole lifetime in fear and hatred and pain, unless you stopped it. He said you were the picture of a perfect wife. No man would have you now. A word from him and the whole town would condemn you if you refused his wants. Deviously, he had made sure it was impossible for you to say no to him and once again you were backed into a corner, that beetle trapped in a matchbox with no way out. 

You needed a place to think. After scooping Willa some oats you donned a hat and your father’s old hunting jacket, a garment fashioned from a durable brown suede with deep front pockets and elk horn buttons. It was familiar and warm, and a comfort. 

You hefted your horse’s saddle off the hook and over her back, commenced cinching the straps and adjusting the stirrups, and led her outside. Fetching your gun belt and a waterskin from the cottage, you mounted up and loped down the forest path. 

Deep in the woods, where the mountain air of spring violets and dew-spangled moss came sweet upon the senses, Nymph Lake rested like a jewel in a chest lined with evergreen velvet, a treasure to the eyes and ears. A glassy calm transfixed the sleeping waters, an aquatic scent lingering. Lily-pads shouldered its reeded edges, rocks shone brown beneath the changeful sheen of the serene ripples, and minnows balanced themselves among the underwater grasses which wavered and streamed in the natural flow of the pond. All around, the timberline hemmed the lone mountain lake in, with the sun scarcely streaking the treetops at the early morning hour. A woodpecker clung to the knot of a treebole and drilled for insects, and along the water a frog added its voice to the song of the wilderness. 

Thompson’s Peak rose up in the azure of the sky like the spires of an Arthurian castle. Seams of snow dwelled in the vast fissures of the mountainside and thrived in the shadows of the rock, a granite tapestry striated with the grays of smoke and storm clouds with canals of rust between. Willa’s hooves sunk into the soggy ground as she shifted on her feet. You swayed in the saddle, giving her some rein and leaning back as she began to climb uphill past a pile of rocks, out of the tree line and towards the sunny side of the bouldered mountain trail. 

For all of its sentimental worth to you, and as safe as any place you could find, Nymph Lake was not the refuge you sought. The times ahead and the path you were about to embark on was uncharted and uncertain territory. The trusting, pure chapter of your life would have to be left in shadow. 

Through the notch between Willa’s ebony ears, you aimed yourself towards the rugged slopes and mounds of the Sawtooths, the earth coarse, shifting with detritus and scree, with few and far pine trees taking root between. Long, bare logs and trunks of trees, parched and decaying, strewed the land, slowly sliding away and downwards, the old bending back into the earth as the new prospers, rising up in the form of saplings. 

Your grandmother’s words came to mind. Always do what your heart tells you. In the bare wind you listened; for one, for the other. The world to you once, the presiding presence of Thompson’s Peak filled your vision, steady as a lighthouse. 

If it were any other man, you could go to the law and report his crime. If you did nothing, you would crumble into a shell of yourself, something brittle and hollow for the wind to sweep away like the exoskeletons of summertime cicadas. If not you, it would be another. Picturing him luring and coercing another unwise girl, grinning at the prospect of her ruination, was enough to temper your insides to steel, your heart to adamant. 

You pulled Willa to a stop and dismounted on the gravel trail, unlimbering your gun. Six bullets occupied the cylinders in the loading chamber and you traced the notch in each one, twisting the mechanism around and around, acknowledging its life-altering clicks, small and clear. Your finger brushed the cool, curved steel trigger. For your protection, grandmother once said. In case you’re in the forest, lost in your foraging, and maybe you’re not watching your step, and you unwittingly stumble upon the hunting grounds of a predator. A beam of sunlight glinted along the barrel like a blinding star. I would have more peace of mind knowing you have some way to protect yourself and how to use it. I’m getting old, you know. 

Amidst the painful contemplation of your fate, fighting your last fight for the principles of your youth on that crumbling mountainside, Willa nosed a cluster of plants growing alongside the trail and set her teeth over their leaves, intending to munch, and everything stopped, suddenly sharpened. In a blink you tsked her away, and as you snapped the revolver chamber back into the loading gate, it all clicked into place, the sound like that of a key sliding in the lock of Death’s door. 

From memory, the page from one of your field guides on plants emerged in your mind’s eye. Death Camas was a member of the Liliaceae plant family, discernible for its grass-like leaves from which sprouted a raceme of white flowers with yellow anthers, as well as its distinctive onion scent. Fifteen different species thrived throughout North America, inhabiting mountain valleys, grassy plains, forests, and dry land alike, all of which grew from a white bulb with a fibrous root system. An unknowing passerby could easily mistake them for wild onions. A mere bite of one would invariably cause weakness and convulsions, vomiting and difficulty breathing, impair their muscles and nerves. A meal of them would stop their heart altogether. 

You crouched to the ground, stones grating underfoot, and your shadow fell over the colony of unassuming plants as you idled over them. Hands gloved, you grasped the base of the stems and pulled firmly. There was a snap as the pearly bulb relinquished its hold in the dirt and emerged in the light of day. One after another, dozens more ripped free without protest, clods of dirt clinging to the Camas’ stringy, tenuous roots. 

Indomitable and unwavering, as you reaped your bounty your resolve cemented to the same rock-hardness of the impassive mountain you stood upon. A mountain formed ages ago from the molten caverns of the Earth, transmuted through pressure and fire; a voyage that began with a roar, a rupture, a rock rending itself from an Archean mountainside which hurdled, crashing, into a valley to be carried down, down into the depths of the sea to slip beneath the subterraneous folds on the ocean floor, only for the process to begin again. 

This journey of tumult and upheaval was a natural cycle, one whose path was familiar to your tread through grief, and, newly, violation. The decision was final as you straightened to your full height.

You were not going to live with fear. You were going to live with guilt. 

He had you helpless, flat on your stomach with a rope of terror binding you in place. You would have him the same, and he would learn an inkling of the measure of pain you would forever carry throughout your life while he realized the end of his. 

I hate leaving it off here and the next part is so so close to being finished, but I was about to lose my mind if I didn’t post something I’ve written. I also thought it would be better to break it off here instead of part one being 22k words. 

I've worked so hard on this, drawing from my own well of pain, and I know this game came out in 2018 and fandom traffic has died down considerably, so if any part of this story sticks out to you I would love to hear your thoughts <3

Also a big fat thank you to every person who has encouraged me to keep writing. Y’all have no idea how many times you have saved my life. My betas, Jessica and Sara, as well my other mutuals on here 💗 Thank you. More than I can say. 

[heart-of-gold-outlaw]

Welcome Home | Chapter 12: It's a' Getting Closer

You never expected to live past your next birthday, let alone get magically sent to the 1890's. Nevertheless, here you are, stuck a hundred and twenty-ish years in the past... and in the care of a group of outlaws, at that. But as you slowly learn to make a life for yourself, you realize that maybe--just maybe--it isn't all bad. Maybe you can finally start living, not just surviving... something you never thought you'd have.

Oh, and then there's Arthur. He makes things a bit more complicated. Feelings and all that.

Ao3

///

The next morning, you wake up with one hell of a hangover. It's odd, considering you didn't drink all that much, but hey: you've always been a lightweight. One beer? Tipsy. Two beers? Drunk. Three beers? Uh oh. Four beers? Hospital time.

The aftermath of last night's alcohol makes you feel like you swallowed a mouthful of sand. You groan, sit up on your bedroll, and spit out some of the bad taste in your mouth. Your head is pounding. It's probably going to take a whole lot of water and whatever greasy food you can get your hands on to make it stop. Here in the 1890s, though, it's not like you can just go to the nearest Denny's for a hangover breakfast. You can only hope that Pearson at least has some bacon on hand. 

The rest of camp is already up and about. You hear the girls chit-chatting as they work, Abigail scrubbing hard at a stain on somebody's shirt, one that's probably blood, while Karen and Mary-Beth argue about who's stuck with mending socks. Tilly is in the process of collecting eggs from the chicken coop, and Molly is... well, doing whatever it is she likes to do. She gives you a halfhearted wave when you catch her eye, then turns to a mirror and starts messing with her hair. 

You wince as you slowly get to your feet. The sun, high in the sky, is far too bright for your liking. You must've slept in. You're honestly surprised that Miss Grimshaw let you, but when you see her, she doesn't snap at you to get to work. Instead, she gives you as much of a smile as she'll ever give anyone and goes back to yelling at Pearson. 

Figuring out how to work your legs is harder than it should be, but eventually, you manage to stumble over to one of the tables. You sink heavily into a chair. Your head is killing you, and you slowly lower it into your arms. The darkness soothes the pain some, but not nearly enough. And to top it all off, you suddenly remember that there's no such thing as ibuprofen yet. Great.

You almost fall asleep again. Before you can, though, there's a dull thunk of a cup being set on the table, and a warm, calloused hand on your shoulder. 

"C'mon," Arthur drawls from somewhere next to you. "Get some water in you."

You groan and don't make a move to lift your head. You've only just gotten the splitting pain to go down to a somewhat less splitting pain. You don't want to ruin that progress.

"I ain't above makin' you," Arthur says, amused. "Trust me: you'll feel better for it."

Then make me, you think. Even through the hangover, the idea kicks up your heartrate a notch. 

Begrudgingly, you lift your head from your arms and take a sip of the water. Your stomach rolls like you're on a boat, and it takes all of your strength not to puke. 

"I think I'm dying," you groan. "Actually: no. I'm already dead. You're talking to my corpse."

Arthur chuckles, his hand absently rubbing soothing circles into your shoulder. You don't think he's aware he's doing it, nor of the effect it has on you, and before you can stop yourself, you're leaning into his touch. 

"You ain't dying," he says softly. Then, quieter: "Not on my watch."

You tilt your head back to look up at him. He's watching you with a fond, gentle smile—such a contrast to the ruthless outlaw he claims to be. It looks good on him. His fingers dig a little harder into your shoulder, carefully easing the knots and tension you've built up over the last few weeks. A sound escapes you. It's small, but the effect is immediate. Arthur's eyes widen just enough to let you know he noticed, and a flush starts creeping up his neck. 

Mortified, you stand up so quickly that you almost trip over your own feet. Arthur reaches out like he's going to steady you, but you're already scrambling away.

"Gotta go help with stuff, sorry!" You call over your shoulder as you get as far away from him as possible.

You make a beeline for Abigail, who's still hard at work with the stained shirt. Before she can even say hello to you, you've grabbed her wrist, hauled her to her feet, and started dragging her towards a secluded spot in the woods not too far from camp. 

"What in the goddamn hell, Y/N?" She demands, rubbing her wrist a little as you finally let her go. "I was in the middle of somethin'." 

You're certain your face is burning as you struggle with what to say. Abigail takes a closer look at you, realizes that you're obviously distressed, and sighs.

"What happened?" She asks in a gentler tone.

"Well," you manage, "I, uh... I have a problem."

Abigail rolls her eyes, exasperated, but not angry. You can tell she's reaching into a deep well of patience. "You're gonna have to be more specific than that, Y/N."

You start pacing, twigs and leaves crunching under your boots. Where can you possibly start? How can you even begin to tell her what happened? There's no telling how she'll react to the truth, that Arthur massaged your shoulder and you made a sound that left little to imagination. 

Dear God. You're screwed.

"I think I like Arthur more than a friend," you say in a jumbled rush. 

Abigail stares at you for a moment, eyebrows raised, mouth slightly parted. You silently wait for your inevitable demise.

"You..." She says slowly. "You're just now figuring that out?"

All of the air leaves your lungs in a startled exhale. "What?"

"Y/N..." Abigail shakes her head, a smile slowly growing on her lips. "The only one who doesn't know you fancy Arthur is Arthur... and apparently you until now."

Your eyes feel like they're going to pop out of their sockets as you gape at her. But... you'd been so careful. You'd made sure that nobody noticed how you felt about Arthur, done your best to hide it since he found you in the Grizzlies. And now for Abigail to tell you that it's all for nothing? 

Uh oh.

"He can never know," you say.

Abigail sighs. "Don't worry. He's about as dense as any man with this sort of thing."

Relief floods your body, and you sag against the closest tree. So far, crisis averted. 

"But if you want my advice," Abigail continues as she kneels next to where you've crumpled, "I'd say go after him. Arthur's a good man, Y/N. He'll treat you right."

You're already shaking your head before she even finishes.

"I can't," you mumble. "I don't wanna ruin things... and I don't think he feels the same way about me."

Abigail chuckles and gently pats your knee. When you look at her, she's smiling.

"Don't be so sure, Y/N."

///

Short chapter this time around because I wanted to get this story back up and running ASAP. Definitely going to aim for weekly updates from now on, so be on the lookout every Sunday!

Also: I'm not dead! Surprise!

See y'all next week!

[grymghoul]

Arthur gripped your hips, he suggested this position, not really suggested. He mostly had lifted you off him the second you had clenched around him, he took advantage of your orgasm to reposition you. His hand held your hips, keeping you up. He gave the curve of you ass an affectionate pat. "You're alright.." His voice was soft, the roughness of it soothing your nerves as your thighs trembled. "Arthur.. please." You weren't even sure if you wanted a break or more, the please seemed to go either way. "You okay?" He mumbled, that rough hand that was always gentle with you smoothed up your spine to the nape of your neck as he leaned over to kiss your shoulder. You panted as you nodded, soft hairs stuck to your forehead. "Want more?" It took you a second to process what he was asking and before you even processed what you were doing, there was a faint nod. He smiled against your skin, "Atta girl.." Arthur had never ending praise for you. For even the simplest of things. A good job for eating dinner or waking up in the morning. Any act of living earned praised, you were his world. His girl. His everything. During these tumultuous times, he found solace in the tiny hotel room he was able to steal you away in. He was able to pretend it was all different. Maybe you two had a home or at least the gang wasn't falling apart.. he snapped out of it as he leaned back, bringing your hips up again.

He eased into you, a breathless gasp followed by a higher pitch moan left your throat. He kept your back arched with one big hand pressed between your shoulders as his other gripped your hip. His blunt nails biting at your skin, leaving little crescents. He wasn't being particularly gentle but nonetheless paused to catch his breath. Your velvet walls were clenching around him, almost painfully tight and too hot. He let out a throaty groan, it came from up in his chest. Almost a breathless noise. Arthur threw his head back, his fingers drumming on your back lightly. He huffed, pulling his hips back, he could feel how you suctioned around him, so he didn't pull out completely. He didn't was to lose that. He snapped his hips, grinning at your breath hitching, nice and loud. You had abused your pussy riding him, until she was puffy and soaked. He offered occasional help, but he mostly thrusted upwards to surprise you when he felt you getting close. He liked watching you do all the work, so it was time to return the favor. Each time he pulled out and rolled his hips forward, they got faster and stronger. He leaned over you, slowly pressing his chest to your back. It was strong and warm, damp with sweat and his hair soft. His hand flew to the headboard, caging you between one arm next to your head and his firm bicep. Built like a piece of sinewy lumber, strong and unmoving, he had you trapped. The noises coming from your dripping cunt were filthy. How could you be soaked for him? A tough, gritty man. A killer. An outlaw. A bad, bad, bad-

"Arthur..!" The way you squeaked his name caught his attention, he could feel your walls around him, shit, your poor pussy never caught a break. He could feel you clenching and writhing and your nails dug into his thick wrist. But he didn't let up, even when you were pushed forward by the sheer force of his thrusts. "Don't- run from me." He gritted out, teeth clenched, his head pressed to the back of yours. His arm shifted, his forearm pressed to the front of your shoulder, keeping you from jolting forward. You were ruining the sheets, his thighs were sticky and slick with you, his dick coated in your cream, his hairs frothy. He wasn't even attempting to quiet himself now. "God.. damn it." Your legs gave out without his hand holding you up, you pressed flat on your stomach, feeling the sheets sticking to your wet skin, beads of sweat sliding down the column of your neck.

"Look'atchu.. You're a good girl.." His praises deep and guttural, he pressed you further into the mattress. Your moans had progressed into soft screams, your face half hidden in your pillow, hair messed. His hand that wasn't white knuckling the headboard slid between the mattress and you, finding your clit. Poor thing was twitching at just the slightest touch from him. "There ya go.. Takin' me and lookin' so pretty.." His lips pressed to the crown of your skull, your hair tickling his nose. With just a few soft circle from his finger, he ripped another orgasm out of you, you soaked his cock while he pounded you into the mattress. You were a sobbing mess, choking on your words. A mix of please, Arthur, I can't do it and don't stop, harder, deeper. He liked fucking the brains right out if your pretty head. Feeling your cunt drenched him and constrict around him so perfectly, like your pussy was made to take his thick cock and keeping it nice and tight and warm, seated so deep within you, made his stomach taught. His own legs trembled at the way his release hit him like a damn freight train.

"Fuck-" he had no words, nothing to describe how it felt, rutting his seed deeper in you with his dick twitching. He collapsed, mind empty, body numb, nearly crushing you and keeping the wind knocked from your lungs. Your hand patted his head. "Good job.. I can't breathe." Arthur's laugh was soft, his eyes closed. "Sorry, sweetheart."

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 1: SOMEWHERE (FAR, FAR) EAST OF THE MOJAVE

synopsis: you wake up in some cabin, half-frozen to death. a man named arthur finds you and decides to have mercy on you, as do his associates.

word count: 3k

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: if anyone wants me to start a taglist just lmk <3!! also there's a PROLOGUE before this, please read it before reading this :)

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

It’s cold. Above everything else, it’s fucking cold. 

You screw your eyes shut tighter, curling in on yourself. You’re vaguely aware that you’re on your side and in a fetal position. 

There’s a light, faintly, somewhere behind you. You let out a hiss that tapers off into a groan and draw your arms over your head.

“Hey!” A voice shouts. It’s growly and abrasive-sounding. There’s the sound of a revolver’s hammer cocking. “Turn around. Face me.”

You prop your forearm on the floor and push yourself up with more effort than you think would be needed. You pant softly, and your breath mists in front of your mouth. You manage to hold yourself up with both hands on the floor and turn your head to look at the man. 

He’s tall in a way that makes him look down his nose at you. His silhouette is stark against the door – there’s snow outside. You don’t remember it to be… snowing. It’s May in southern California. It doesn’t snow in May in southern California.

The man looks you over, his revolver still pointed at you. His hand is unwavering.

“I’m sorry,” you say. You don’t know why. “Is this your house?”

“No,” the man says simply. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“I’m…” You look down at your hands, the way they’re braced against the floor. “I don’t know. I think…” 

Your arms shake, then collapse. Your jaw hits the floor with a dull thud, and your eyes screw shut on instinct.

“Shit,” the man drawls under his breath. 

“W-wait! Wait,” you say quickly. “I’m not on anything. I – I’m stone-cold sober. Like Steve Austin.”

You force a laugh and manage to open your eyes to look at the man. He looks confused – maybe a little disgusted? It’s hard to tell.

“Like, the wrestler?” You say. “Stone Cold Steve Austin?”

The man lowers his revolver, just a little, so that it’s not pointed at your head, but still in your general direction. It’s obvious he doesn’t know what you’re talking about, in any capacity. Maybe he won’t shoot you if he thinks you’re insane? (Or maybe that would just give him more of an incentive to kill you.)

“Just – just ignore me,” you say. (Again, you don’t know why. You don’t want to be ignored – you’re very obviously in bad shape.) “I don’t know where I am. I remember being in California, just north of Los Angeles.”

The man scoffs and checks over his shoulder, like he’s checking he’s not being duped. He looks back at you. “California? Really?”

“Yes,” you say softly. You wrap your jacket tighter around yourself the best you can with the way that you’re laying. “South. Right near Mexico – Tijuana.”

The man tilts his head and takes a half-step closer. “You’re bleedin’.”

“I am?” You manage to move your arm and see dried brown blood on your jacket laced with redder, fresher blood. “I am.”

“I just…” You shift, curling in on yourself further. Now that he’s pointed it out, you do feel some type of dull pain in your abdomen. “I’ll be okay. Don’t call for a doctor, or an ambulance. Please don’t call an ambulance. I – I’ll get to a hospital on my own.”

The man shifts on his feet. Was it always this cold? It’s… it’s so fucking cold. And no matter how much you curl in on yourself, there’s no warmth. 

The black returns. 

There’s snippets of conversations you can pick up on over the sound of feet shuffling and the sound of wind blowing outside. One woman gives a few demands to others, while another woman announces that “Davey’s dead.”

You can feel yourself being lifted and laid on something that’s hard against your back. You groan and try to open your eyes and sit up, but can’t. 

The voices grow quieter. There’s a man making some sort of speech – you can’t make out the words. 

You know you’re wavering in and out. There’s the warmth of a man’s hand on your shoulder, and a murmuring voice, still fading in and out: “I commend you… your Creator… who formed you from the dust… angels, and all the saints…”

It takes all your strength to lift your hand and grab him – some part of him. You can barely open your eyes and can’t make out a lot. “Not… dead yet. Fucking pr…preacher.”

Black again. There’s a repetitive, stinging pain in your side. 

Awake, again. Somehow. A woman, her face worn but still beautiful, hovers over you. Her wrinkles are stark in the lantern light. 

“Hello?” You say, your voice a bit slurred.

The woman turns and calls another woman over – this one much younger than her. “Miss Jackson, get Dutch. Let him know Arthur’s friend is awake.”

Miss Jackson turns and walks off with a “Yes, Miss Grimshaw.” 

“Arthur?” You interject. “Is that the man who found me?”

Miss Grimshaw turns back to you. “Yes, Arthur’s the one who found you. I don’t know why he didn’t shoot you.”

You wait for her to say something more. She doesn’t.

“Where am I?” You try. “I remember being in California, just outside of the Mojave. But the Mojave doesn’t get snow in May.”

“That’s because you’re not in the Mojave,” Miss Grimshaw says. “We’re in the Grizzlies.”

“Th…the Grizzlies?” You echo. “Like, Appalachia?”

“Somewhere in there, yes,” she says. “You been out a few days now. Reverend read you your last rites a handful of times.”

You try to sit up, but groan and lay back down. She pushes you down as well, a scowl on her face. 

The door opens with a gust of cold wind. A man steps in, then quickly shuts the door behind him. He hurries over, rubbing his gloved hands together. 

He looks you over, then drags a nearby chair over and sits. “What’s your name, friend?”

You give him your name. 

“My name is Dutch,” Dutch says. “Dutch van der Linde. I think you know by now that you’ve caught us at an… inconvenient time. And you’ll forgive us for not trusting you right away.”

“No, I get that,” you say. “I just… I need a map or something. I need to get back home.”

Dutch beckons for Miss Grimshaw to bring over a map. He opens it and holds it out to you. 

You sit up, slowly, making sure not to do anything too sudden. When you’re upright, you take the map from him and look it over. You don’t recognize anything on the map, but one point piques your interest – the date. The year reads 1891.

“Sir, I don’t mean to be rude, but…” You point to the year. “This map seems a little out of date.”

“It’s just eight years,” Miss Grimshaw says. “Most everything is the same.”

You glance up at her, then at Dutch, then at the people around the cabin. Your fingers twitch and crumple the map a bit. 

This is a dream! I’m in a coma! Your mind shouts. I’m in a medically-induced coma because I was shot and holy hell – how the fuck did I go from 2024 to 1899?!

“Right, right,” you say instead. “Sorry. I’m just being nitpicky.”

“Where’re you from?” Dutch asks. 

“California. Near the Mojave,” you say. “Out west.”

“And you would leave all that… virgin paradise…” Dutch laughs and gestures vaguely around him. “For this?”

“I don’t know how I got here,” you say. “I’ve been saying that since I woke up. I don’t…” You shake your head.

“Well, I’m sure we can get you back to your home,” Dutch says. “We’re persevering folk. Do you recognize anything – anything at all – on that map?”

You look down at the map again. It’s all unfamiliar. “No. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, my friend,” Dutch says, reaching a hand out like it’s meant to soothe. “You’re a soul in need. I’m sure we can figure something out somehow. Can you at least tell me what your home is like?”

This is a coma, you remind yourself. I can just make something up. I’m not some person that couch-surfed for half my life. I can be whoever.

“I… it’s odd,” you say to buy yourself some time. You say the first thing that comes to mind. “There’s a few tribes that live in Zion Canyon – the Dead Horses and the Sorrows. I was a courier delivering goods to the Dead Horses. There were two men there that convinced me to stay.”

A Black man – broad, intimidating, with long, dark hair – perks up at the mention of tribes. His dark (almost black, honestly) eyes find yours, then he looks down at the floor again.

“None of it rings a bell,” Dutch says. “But, these men – what’re their names?”

It’s in that exact moment that you realize you just prattled off part of the storyline of Fallout: New Vegas. Then you realize that, if this really is 1899, no one here would know what you’re talking about. 

“Joshua Graham and Daniel,” you say. “They’re white – they work with the natives and help them trade. Joshua’s acting as the Dead Horses’ war chief and Daniel is a healer that works with the Sorrows.”

Yes. You’re totally friends with Joshua Graham and Daniel and the Dead Horses and the Sorrows. And from the way Dutch nods solemnly, you think he believes you. 

You hold out the map and he takes it back, folding it neatly. 

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” you say. “I’ve never even been this far east before.”

“Don’t worry,” Dutch says. “You can stay with us, for the time being. At least until we get to some… some town, or city. Let you rest your feet while you recover. We’re a gang of… violent criminals and degenerates, but we care. I can’t say the same for the rest of America.”

Your hand instinctively goes to your side, where you felt the stinging, repetitive pain earlier. “Right. My side doesn’t feel as bad as before. Thank you for that.”

You look around and slowly swing your feet over the side of the table. A lightning arc of pain shoots down your leg, causing you to gasp and tense. As with everything else, you force through it and stand. 

“I need to get some air,” you say. Dutch just nods. You walk (shamble, really) to the door and open it, slipping outside.

The cold is even worse out here. There’s footpaths in the snow. You stick your hands under your arms and walk one. It leads to a man standing by a fire in front of a cabin, dressed in a winter poncho with a gun in his hands. 

You hold your hands out towards the fire and rub your hands together. It doesn’t replace the warmth you had while you were inside, but it’s still something.

“What’s your name?” The man asks. He shifts the rifle in his hands, but doesn’t move to point it at you. (An improvement, if a small one.)

You give him your name. “What about you?”

“Javier,” Javier says. “Javier Escuella.”

“Where are you from?” You shift your focus to the fire. “Not trying to be rude. It’s just that there’s a few ‘Javier’s where I’m from.”

“Northern Mexico,” Javier says. “You?”

“I’m originally from the South, but I live in the Mojave. I moved to the Frontier to be closer to my sister,” you say. “So I guess we weren’t that far off from each other.”

You look up at the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow. It’s the man from way earlier – Arthur. You look back at the fire instead.

Arthur nods at Javier and spares a glance at you before entering the cabin. People are talking inside, and you catch a snippet of voices before Arthur closes the door again.

“It’s too cold to be May,” Javier says. You can tell he’s trying to be polite by making conversation. “I’m not designed for this snow.”

“I know, right?” You laugh under your breath. “Neither am I. I’d go back inside, but I don’t want to intrude. Any more than I already have, anyway.”

“It’s below freezing,” he says. “Everyone needs shelter. Come on.”

With that, Javier turns and walks into the cabin, holding the door open behind him for you. You thank him and follow him inside. 

Inside is a group of men and the overwhelming smell of cigarette smoke. You tense when they all turn to face you. Most of them are, in fact, smoking. You nod politely and tuck yourself into a corner, next to a man with a blond mustache. 

A hefty man is sitting across from the blond man, and a much younger Black man is sitting on a table next to him. Javier is by the door, and you try your best to ignore Arthur’s huge presence beside you. You can see him throw a small log into the woodstove out of the corner of your eye.

The man sort-of across from you looks at you, then returns his gaze to the man sitting beside you. “I guess folks miss them… that fell.”

“Well, when I fall, I don’t want no fuss,” the man beside you says.

“When you fall…” The young man waves his hand, which is holding a lit cigarette. “There’ll be a party.”

“A party!” The hefty man echoes, laughing. “Hah, probably.”

You feel the beginnings of a smile start to cross your face. You don’t know these people, and while they aren’t exactly doing their best to welcome you, they aren’t exactly making you feel unwelcome, either.

The man beside you holds out a bottle to you. You hesitantly take it, even though you’re confused. “I don’t want this.”

He pays you no mind and stands, looking down at the man. “That funny, huh?”

“Sure,” the man says, the remnants of laughter still in his voice.

One man strikes another, and it’s loud, absolute chaos. On instinct, your eyes snap to the door. Unblocked. An exit if needed.

Arthur and the young man are holding the hit man back, and the blond man speaks. “Maybe  I don’t feel like being laughed at by the likes of you two!”

It’s going to escalate. You can get to the door. Dutch was right – this is a gang of violent criminals and degenerates. One you want nothing to do with.

But Dutch bursts in with a gust of cold wind. As soon as he sees what’s going on, his face twists. The men dissipate from their tight proximity and distance themselves from each other.

“Stop it!” He snaps. “You fools punching each other when Colm O’Driscoll’s needin’ punching – hard! You wanna sit around, waiting for him to come find us?”

Arthur slips out of the door as Dutch continues. “All of you, we got work to do. Come on.”

The men turn and start to file out of the cabin. You can hear Arthur and Dutch talking outside. By the time you’re outside, most of the men are over by the horses or on one of them.

Dutch is talking quietly to Arthur while they’re both mounting up – you couldn’t hear them if you tried. He straightens up on his snow-white horse and shouts. “Mister Matthews, Mister Smith, Mister Pearson, would you please look after the place? There are O’Driscolls about!”

With that, he snaps the reins and his horse darts off. The rest of the men from the cabin, now all on horseback, quickly follow. 

You resign yourself to following another footpath. This one leads to a partly-sheltered, partly-dilapidated garage-type-thing with something like a kitchen inside. There’s a deer hoist against the wall, but it’s empty.

Your eyes dart to some sort of cauldron-looking pot hanging over a fire that’s mostly coals. You walk over and hold your hands out to it, trying to get warm again. 

“You’re new.”

Your head snaps up to see the broad Black man from earlier. He still has that impassive look on his face. 

“Yes, sir, that’s right,” you say. You introduce yourself. “What’s your name?”

“Charles Smith.” Charles walks and stands beside you, mirroring you and putting his hands out towards the fire. “You were talking earlier about tribes.”

“Yeah,” you say. “What about them?”

“I’ve never heard of the ones you were talking about,” he says. His voice is deep and smooth and calm. (You try your best not to latch onto that sense of calmness. You now know how quickly things can turn.)

“The Sorrows and the Dead Horses?” You rub your nose as you try to think of an excuse. “I wouldn’t expect you to. They live in Zion Canyon – in the Mojave. They’re fairly isolated, but they’re good people.”

Charles hums and his eyes return to the fire. You try to think of something to keep the conversation going.

“Who’s Colm O’Driscoll?” You ask. “I’ve heard his name a handful of times.”

“A rival gang leader,” he says. “Runs the O’Driscolls.”

“Oh. Yeah.” You scratch your cheek. “That makes sense.”

A silence settles over the two of you again. Charles must be comfortable with it. Unfortunately, you’re not. 

“Is there anything people need done?” You ask, glancing at him. “I don’t like being idle for too long.”

He looks over at the empty deer hoist. “We need food.”

“I’m no good at hunting.” You look at the fire and rub your hands together again. “Sorry.”

“You apologize a lot,” Charles says. His eyes flick to you. “You know you don’t have to do that, right?”

You bite back another apology and force a laugh. Your breath mists in front of your face. “Force of habit.”

Charles hums and his focus returns to the smoldering coals that make up the fire. A nagging thought in the back of your head tells you that you made him mad (even though he’s given literally no indication you’ve done so). 

You follow his lead and look at the fire. There’s nothing else to do in this kind of cold, anyway. 

[starlight-and-whiskey]

AO3 Masterlist - RDR2

Under Your Skin (Ongoing) Never meaning to, you end up pregnant with Arthur Morgan's child. One child leads to a happiness you never thought you'd find, which in turn leads to a family Arthur never thought he deserved. Arthur/ (F) Reader

Weep and Call it Singing When tasked with bringing down Dutch's boys from the inside by Colm O Driscoll, the last thing you expected was to find yourself torn between two sides. Least of all, you never expected to fall in love with your rival's loyal enforcer. Arthur/(F) Reader - Word Count: 57,739

Seams are Torn When a hunting trip with Arthur goes bad, you find yourself holed up miles from camp and inches from death. This story takes place in the cabin you take refuge in, with fear burrowing into your bones, Arthur's honeyed reassurances, and the threatening icy embrace of death's hand looming at your shoulder. Arthur/(F) Reader - Word Count: 22,362

A Place to Rest Your Bones (18+ Chapters) Your momma always welcomed Dutch and Hosea to take refuge in your small house whenever they needed. As you grow older, you become a safe haven for Arthur. A life told through snapshots of these visits from a young child, until your final visit. Arthur/(F) Reader - Word Count: 59,102

More People than Ghosts Battered and bruised, when Eleanor escaped the infamous Blackthorne gang, she didn't expect to fall into the arms of Arthur Morgan. But can you ever truly leave your past behind? Arthur/OFC - Word Count: 24,068

Roping 101 Arthur finds himself a little...tied-up. After all, camp doesn't provide a whole heap of opportunities to really let go. A hotel room with a sturdy headboard does. Arthur/Reader - 18+ - Word Count: 1,342

Fever and Falling You left the Van der Linde gang years ago, but when Arthur Morgan falls ill, you're persuaded to return. Nursing Arthur back to health rekindles more than just old memories. Arthur/Reader - Word Count: 6,430

My Soul has Gone Away Arthur Morgan doesn't say a lot about Eliza and Isaac. He has nightmares about them a lot though. This is one of them. Word Count: 1,513

Don't Call Me Sweetheart Had a dream, wrote a fic. Aimless smut/fluff about reader getting hurt and Arthur caretaking...of sorts.... Arthur/Reader - 18+ - Word Count: 2,733

We Can't Change What's Done Your world is turned upside down when a crazed cowboy claiming to be from the past barges into your home. Your future in his past is told to you through letters from...well, from yourself. Arthur/Reader - 18+ Chapter - Word Count: 19,622

[prettyundeadgirl]

Until the Night Turns

│Track Two of Strange Trails

Summary: Arthur couldn't keep his eyes off you during Sean's return party.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Wordcount: 1.4k

Tags: Fluff, Kissing

AO3 Link

A/N: I apologize for not updating sooner, I'm in college and I haven't had much time to write unfortunately :/

likes, comments, and reblogs are highly appreciated!

In the time of night when the oscillating red and orange ribbons of fire wavered and the abounding stars splattered across the sky flowered brightly, Arthur sat at an old wooden table, a silent witness to the ongoing party. The area was bustling with laughter and chatter, and the warm flickering glow of the campfire cast a golden hue over the scene. The tepid wind roused the trees, and the scent of freshly bloomed wildflowers was prominent in the air.

He took in the joy of his exultant family, bonded together by hope and the pursuit of a better life. The camaraderie was a temporary release from the baggage of an unimaginably difficult time they had previously experienced. Moments like this were rare for him and always bound to end in a trice, and he’d once again return to a life of bloodshed. 

Arthur believed himself to be a living, breathing embodiment of a tragedy, with an intrinsic reflection of worthlessness pinned from birth and condemned to a life of misfortune. His years would pass him by, slow as cold molasses and equally bitter, but when your paths crossed, those beliefs waned, and your saccharine nature made his life sweeter.

He took a thoughtful sip from his beer, and his gaze soon fell upon you, as it did multiple times throughout the night. While gossiping with the girls or grabbing a drink for yourself, you felt his eyes on you. You didn’t mind of course and rather relished in the fact that he spent his time admiring you, and you didn’t let it go unnoticed as you would return the glances with the warmest of smiles.

Your presence was serene amidst the revelry, sending an unwitting grin to appear on his face. All that was familiar to him disappeared, and he placed all of his attention on you, transfixing him in that untouchable moment and capturing the image in memory.

You held Jack in your arms and swayed to the music that radiated from the gramophone nestled in the heart of the camp, watching as Dutch and Molly danced beneath the euphoric light of the argent moon tucked away behind the dusky veil of clouds.

His thoughts stemmed from a more hopeful root, and he imagined what it would be like to have a family with you—if that were in your dreams. To get away from this life and give you the one you so rightfully deserved.

Unlike Arthur, you didn’t mind what kind of life you lived as long as he was by your side; that was all that mattered. Besides that, your thoughts ran similar to those of his, and as you looked at Jack’s large brown eyes and tousled chestnut hair, you felt immense happiness and like a mother toward him at times. As you spun around once with Jack, a rupture of small giggles rang out from him. 

By instinct, you looked ahead to meet Arthur’s gaze. “I’m going to see if Uncle Arthur would like a dance, okay?” 

“Okay!” He nodded, and you put him down, watching him run off toward his mother. You take in a steady breath as you strode to Arthur. His ruminations ceased at your approach.

“Would you like to dance?” Your gentle voice stirred emotions deep within him that refused to fade, and the crease between his brows had relaxed at your tone. He remembered the first time you had spoken to him, those exhaled words engraved into his wandering thoughts on that one summery day. He initially denied his love for you, stirring a thousand words unsaid in his morning coffee, letting it all dissolve at the base of his tongue, and swallowing it into inexistence. 

It took a while for Arthur to accept that you made him not feel burdened by the heaviness of his polluted soul anymore, and instead made him feel like the good man he never believed he was. Never thought he could be. You saw that goodness in him, even when he couldn’t see it himself, and you were the feeling of bliss that one would strive for in their lifetime.

“‘Course, though I ain’t much of a dancer.” He finally answered, and rose from his seat, abandoning the beer he once held to take your hand–your touch was warm, and he dipped his head down to hide the faint smile that formed on the corner of his mouth.

You assured him with a simple That’s alright, as you guided him beside Dutch’s tent, and he captured you in the circle of his arms, with one hand resting on your lower back whilst the other interlaced with your own. Your hand rested on the juncture of his neck and shoulder, fingers slipping beneath his undone collar. You pressed your ruddy cheeks to his chest—his jacket held the scent of gun oil, rich leaves, and a hint of musk that always attracted you. 

“I thought you said you weren’t much of a dancer? You seem to be doing good to me.”

His chuckle reverberated through his empty lungs, each rib chiming in harmony. “To you,” He emphasized. “Maybe not to others.”

“That’s true.”

His heart was sent into a fluttering frenzy as it beat fiercely against his ribs, threatening to break them as you pressed closer. It lasted longer than a moment before you moved your head away to glance at him with perpetual admiration. The simple way you looked at him, and truly saw him like no other had made him sink into the deepest peace he had ever known. And the gleam of stars matched that of your eyes as you stared deeply into his, and the melodic trill filled your ears.

The departing footsteps of Dutch and Molly were overlooked as you both were in wonderment, swaying in each other’s embrace. He spun you around once, your long flowy dress flaring beneath you. When you returned to his embrace, your eyes trailed over his features and landed at the seam of his lips. Arthur reaches for your face, his thumb brushing your lip, and all he can do is wait for that simple nod you give for him to close the gap between you.

♫ ♪ ♫ ♪

Your tent’s flaps were closed, providing you both privacy from the outside world as the party subdued. You listened to nature's symphony take over, the small crackle of the dying fire, the winds whistling, and the song of an owl you’d sometimes hear before you fell asleep. 

You had distanced yourselves from the party early, conversing with one another for most of the night. About life, the past, and each other. He preferred your company over any party, listening with much intent to your stories as you spoke with immense passion. Every other sound apart from your voice he tuned out. 

When the conversation had simmered and there wasn’t much else to say, you took the opportunity to finally thank him, hands folded in your lap.

“For what?”

“For dancing with me. I haven’t had this much fun in… awhile.” You finally looked at him after staring at your hands.

“Yeah, I know. Me too.” A deep sigh escaped him, and he took your hands in his, thumb caressing your knuckles. “I wish… I could give you something better than this.”

“Arthur,” You moved onto his lap. “Stop that. It doesn’t matter to me where we are. You’re here with me. That’s all.” You reassured his doubts, hand cupping his cheek.

He allowed himself to look at you and softened at your gaze. The dreaminess of your pretty features allayed him. It was apparent how much you both had wanted each other at this moment as the taste of longing glimmered in your irises, and the lack of doubts and reluctance within the warm space fueled your confidence to reconnect your lips with his once more. You gently wrapped your arms around his neck, feeling the ends of his hair prickle your skin. 

The simple motion of Arthur laying you on your back, and drifting over you, sent a swarm of flittering butterflies within your chest. His kisses were as delicate as the shimmer of moonlight on water. He moved downward to your neck, close to your ear as he whispered how beautiful you looked tonight. His hand trailed you with need, slipping beneath your skirt, and showing you how much you truly meant to him until the night turned day.

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Tags: @yyiikes and @kirksluv (if anyone else wants to be tagged in future chapters let me know!)

[cullywullen]

“Partners In Crime”

Hello, RDR2 fandom. I arrive with the gift of Arthur Morgan smut.