rosaliepostsstuff

[rosaliepostsstuff]

BBC Merlin Rewatch - 1x01 The Dragon's Call

Rating criteria:

1. Is Sir Leon in this episode?

No.

Final Score: 0/10

[rosaliepostsstuff]

Oh you sweet, poisonous thing

summary: just Arthur yearning and being jealous of reader and Javier. Enjoy😽

pairing: arthur morgan x fem!reader

content: fluff, jealousy, a hint of angst maybe ?? idk

wc: 1,8k

a/n: *taps into the mic* heyy,,, how y’all doing *voice echoes, crickets can be heard in the distance* so i kinda disappeared from tumblr ik. I went through a rough period and I thought a lot about what to do with this account. I lost all motivation to write for a while ngl, but after some thinking i decided that no matter what I’ll keep writing and posting here. After all this was and still is my little safe space where i can just forget about my life and post silly things about cowboys sooo yeah have some Arthur yearning because we should bring back yearning in 2025. ok i yapped enough bah byee

The cracking sound of the campfire travels softly in the center of camp, casting long, flickering shadows that stretch and shift over the familiar faces of the gang, dancing on their features to the sound of the soft music leaving Javier’s guitar.

It had been a rare, uneventful day—the kind where, surprisingly, nothing went wrong, and the world seemed to hold its breath afraid to burst the serene and quiet bubble that engulfed all round the camp. The stillness settled over the gang’s members like a balm, soothing old wounds and lifting everyone’s spirits. By evening, an easy carefree air had taken root, boosted by a few shared drinks and Javier’s guitar.

You sit near the fire, sandwiched between Karen and John, the blonde slouched lazily at your side, her cheeks flushed from the too many whiskey glasses she downed. Javier is in a contagious good mood, sitting on the ground near John strumming another lively tune as he leans toward you, his bronze skin glowing in the campfire’s light and he’s grinning like at you like the charmer he is.

“Why don’t you sing with me, cariño,” he says, his voice playfully teasing. A chorus of groans and exaggerated complaints come from around the campfire, the gang all too eager to tease you about the first and fortunately the last time you sang around the campfire in Horseshoe Overlook after you had too many to drink. You remember waking up the morning after with a terrible headache and the sweet memory of laughter shared around the warmth of the campfire.

You laugh at their reaction, shaking your head. “I think I’ll save everyone’s ears this time, thank you.”

Javier chuckles and with that resumes playing, his voice low and smooth. His energy is infectious, pulling easy smiles and a few soft laughs from everyone. But in the back of your mind, you can feel that there’s a subtle shift in the air—a pull, a presence that tugs at your attention like a ping you can’t ignore. It’s faint at first, almost imperceptible, but it grows stronger, undeniable, familiar. You glance toward the edge of camp, and as suspected there he is.

He’s leaning against one of the wooden posts near the horses, half swallowed by the shadows, the dim firelight barely reaching the brim of his worn hat. His broad shoulders are hunched, arms crossed tightly over his chest like he’s trying to protect himself, to keep something away though you’re not sure he even knows what it is. His aqua eyes are sharp even in the shadows, and they’re fixed directly on you.

As the weight of his gaze settles over you like a heavy fog, thick and tangible, despite the distance between you, a shiver runs down your spine. Your chest tightens, as if the very air around him has thickened with unspoken things.

You’ve known him long enough to feel a quiet storm building in the depths of his quiet, unshakable composure. It’s not indifference nor anger. It’s something else—something raw and unspoken but you can’t, and maybe won’t, put a name on it.

When Javier nudges you playfully, you force yourself to focus back on him, offering him a smile that you hope conceals the tension swirling inside of you. Still, the weight of Arthur’s gaze doesn’t leave you, not even as the evening stretches on.

As the night deepens, the fire crackles low. One by one, people begin to drift off, leaving just you, Tilly, Lenny, Javier, and Karen around the fire. Tilly, who had joined your little circle a few hours earlier, is lively chatting with Lenny about some gossip she’d overheard in town, her voice bright with excitement seemingly unphased by the late hour. Meanwhile, Karen has fallen asleep with her head resting on your shoulder, undoubtedly drooling a bit on your blouse. This leaves you and Javier alone, the conversation between you two flowing easily, until he eventually sets his guitar aside with a stretch, breaking the comfortable atmosphere.

“Already going to bed ?” you tease, nudging him gently on the side. “Won’t you play me another song before you go to sleep ?”

He smirks, shaking his head with a wink.

“Tomorrow.” He promises winking at you. He stands up and disappears into the shadows of the night. After a few minutes Karen stirs awake, mumbling something about needing another drink before bed, lazily getting up on her feet, shuffling toward the camp’s supply.

After that it’s just you, Tilly and Lenny sitting near the dying fire. From your peripheral vision you can see the dark silhouette of Arthur sitting at the worn wooden round table under the tall tree in camp. You don’t look at him, not directly, but you feel his presence like a thread pulling between you. You sit there, looking at the fire contemplating if approaching him or calling it a night.

When you finally stand, your feet move before your mind can catch up with your actions. You carefully walk towards him, finding him hunched slightly over the table, his broad shoulders tense as he stares down into the nearly empty glass in his hand.

“Mind if I join you ?” you say pausing a few feet away. The sound of your voice softly filling the cold air around you both.

Arthur doesn’t immediately look up, his focus still fixed on the amber liquid swirling in his glass. You nearly contemplate leaving when after a long moment, he tips his head in a slow, deliberate nod. “Suit yourself.”

You take a seat across from him, your hands folding in your lap playing with a few loose threads as you settle into the quiet. For a long moment, neither of you speak. The noise of the evening has faded away, leaving the camp wrapped in the soft rustle of trees and the distant sound of crickets.

“Tired ?” you finally ask, your voice hesitant, breaking the silence.

Arthur huffs a low breath, his eyes never leaving the glass. “Long day,” he mutters, a simple response that tells you nothing.

You nod, though his answer feels like a wall, a quick, easy way to avoid revealing something deeper. There’s something bothering him, and maybe it’s the alcohol in your system or maybe you simply care too much for him but you’re determined to find out what.

“Javier kept everyone entertained tonight,” you say lightly, your words casual, trying to spark a conversation, though you’re watching him closely.

Arthur’s grip on his glass tightens just enough for his knuckles to go pale against the clear glass. “Yeah,” he replies, his tone flat. “He’s good at that.”

The space between you feels heavier now, filled with something unspoken, a tension that neither of you acknowledges directly. You lean back in your chair, letting the silence settle between you, but you can’t ignore the flicker of his eyes as they meet yours, then quickly shift away like he’s afraid of what might show if he stares at yours too long.

“What’re you drinking ?” you ask after a moment, breaking the quiet.

“Whiskey.”

“‘S that the good whiskey Pearson’s been hiding, or the usual watered down crap ?”

Arthur’s lips twitch, almost imperceptibly, clearly fighting a smile. “Usual crap,” he murmurs. “Pearson ain’t that generous.”

You laugh softly, the sound easing some of the tension that’s built between you. But still, it lingers, just beneath the surface, like something you both know but can’t put into words.

“You seemed quiet tonight,” you say after a pause, studying him closely.

Arthur shrugs, lifting his glass to his lips, the movement slow, as if every motion is carefully measured.

“Didn’t feel like talkin’.”

You watch him, your gaze tracing the line of his jaw, his wet lips and the way his fingers absently trace the rim of his glass. He’s not being completely honest—that much you know, but you’ve learned to read between the spaces of his words.

“Or maybe you just didn’t like the company,” you offer, your tone playful but with an edge to it.

Arthur’s eyes snap to yours, sharp and unmoving. “I didn’t say that,” he replies, his voice low, almost a growl.

He holds your gaze a beat longer than necessary, and you feel the weight of it settle deep in your chest, making your breath hitch. There’s something in his eyes, something raw, vulnerable that makes your heart stutter. You’re not sure if he sees how your composure falters, but he’s the first to look away, tipping his hat lower over his brow to shield his expression.

You’ve always hated when he does that—you’ve always hated the way he uses it to put a distance between you, but now more than ever you hate it because it feels like the wall between you is growing thicker and you’re not sure if you can get through anymore.

“You’re a hard man to figure out Arthur Morgan,” you say softly, the teasing edge gone from your voice. He doesn’t answer right away, and when he does, it’s in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Maybe that’s for the best.”

You bite your lower lip in frustration but then you force yourself to swallow down your disappointment. The conversation shifts then, moving toward more trivial things like the weather, the horses, Pearson’s latest disaster with the stew. But even as you talk, you know that there’s another conversation happening in the spaces between words, in the glances you exchange, in both your body language, in the way the silence sometimes wraps itself around you both.

You don’t speak of it. You don’t name it. Neither of you can, but you know it’s there.

“Good night Arthur,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended. You give him a sweet smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, before you stand, the weight of your own tiredness forcing you to seek the sweet embrace of your bed.

He doesn’t reply right away, just gives a slow tip of his hat. “Night.”

As you start to take a few steps away from the table, you feel his gaze on your back—steady, unwavering. It feels like it’s burning into your skin.

You glance over your shoulder, just once, and meet his eyes. For a moment, they’re distant, almost lost, like he’s somewhere far away in thought. But as your gaze lingers, you catch something else, something in the way his eyes soften, the barely perceptible softening of his eyebrows. It’s not a look of anger or frustration that he gives you, no, he’s looking at you with something deeper, something raw.

It’s the kind of look that makes your chest tighten, a sweet warmth settling between your ribs. He doesn’t need to say anything, you can feel it in the glance between you—the weight of all the things neither of you will dare to speak aloud.

In that brief moment, you understand. And it’s enough to leave you walking away with butterflies storming in your stomach and the strange sense that you’ve just shared something deep, something fragile with him without ever needing to say a word.

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Drabble I — Javier, Guitar

javier x reader

One comfortable night in Horseshoe Overlook, you’re sat by Javier’s bedroll, next to the warm campfire as you thought to yourself. His guitar is leant by a nearby barrel — looking too pretty to resist.

While you do have your own guitar, it’s way back in your tent, which is too much of a walk you couldn’t bother to do. Your hands reach for his guitar, your fingers wrapping around the neck gently as you lay it on your thighs. Like second nature, your fingers press on the strings as your other hand pluck it with a gentle melody.

It’s peaceful, for a moment — it feels as if you were somewhere else. It feels as if you were away from all of your problems, the soothing sounds of the guitar filling your system. You sigh, humming to the tune with quiet lyrics of a distant song. You can’t quite remember the words properly, but it reminds you of childhood.

“Oh I don’t recall that being yours, mi amor?” You hear Javier’s voice echo in front of you. Your eyes peer up to lock with his, and you can see that smirk of his. Your fingers halt for a moment, when you reply. “It looked at me first.”

“Come here, Javi. I want you to hear something.”

He raises a brow in curiosity, all the while he sits next to you. “Yeah? I’m listening.”

You look at him one last time. He returns your look with an expectant one, but you can’t help but chuckle at his seriousness.

“What?” He says, with a confused smile on his face. You wish you could picture his face and burn it into your memory. “Nothing, nothing…”

With a deep breath in, you start playing. It’s a soft melody, and Javier listens in with eagerness, his head leaning in a little more to hear it. Your hums are angelic, to him — it felt like an angel singing.

A few words in and Javier had already melted in a little puddle. He felt a strange warmness in his chest — even though you’d already made him feel that numerous times ago. But this time, it was different.

You were singing to him. And he realized this, that you were serenading him. Your words went straight to his heart, soothing whatever trouble that lay there.

Wasn’t he supposed to sing to you instead? To coo how beautiful you were, how much love he felt for you; and yet you were the one doing it to him.

Every syllable that left your lips were heartfelt, no mistake to the written lyrics you had tucked under your bed. His cheeks felt warm, and he watched you in awe.

To think somebody felt this about him.

But he was merely an outlaw. A cold-blooded murderer. And yet your words say opposite.

When the song had finished, you looked up at him with a warm smile. Javier sat there, dumbfounded.

“Well, what do you think?” You asked as you tucked a loose strand of hair between your ear.

“What do I think?” Javier repeated, quietly. “I don’t… know.”

“Am I really all of that for you?” He adds. He was taken aback. And to think you wrote that yourself. And you… well, you sang it to him. It was made specifically for his ears.

“Why, you don’t believe me?” You questioned with a teasing look, but it later turned into a soft smile. You knew he was speechless. “Javi, look at me. Even words can’t describe you.”

“I believe you, querida. I just… I’ve never…”

It was akin to a man receiving flowers. He felt like the luckiest man in the world. “I’ve never been sang to.”

“Now you have, and you’ll continue to.”

[rosaliepostsstuff]

Can I please request a headcanon thingie of Arthur Morgan x Sick!Reader? Modern AU or canon time, any level of honor, idc, i have just come down with an awful cold with fever, ear pain, heartburn and so on, and could use some cheering up:(( i just know this man could cure me by stroking my hair... do you think he would? Tysm<3<3

Author’s Note: This is sort of a mix of a drabble that turns into headcanons, I hope you enjoy!! I loved writing these, Arthur is so comforting to write in the first place but having him care for Reader is always a favourite little thing of mine to write <3 I hope you’re feeling better today, my sweet Anon <3

Arthur Morgan x Sick!Female Reader

☆ One morning, you wake with a rasp to your voice. Arthur would have hummed and pulled you closer, telling you how sexy you sounded if it wasn’t for the watery nature of your heavy eyes and the gentle but concerning labour to your breath.

☆ He’s quick to blink away the early morning haze which you usually spend a tad longer than needed swimming within together, beneath cotton blankets and one another’s limbs. He props himself up on his elbow, his brow pinched with concern as his sleep-addled brain catches up.

☆ “I don’t feel too well, Arthur.” You whisper, and wince as a burning pain flows up through your throat and into your eyes and sinuses. You swallow and it sounds thick, strangled.

☆ Arthur sits up further and wraps his arms around your back, pulling you up and gently cradling you, “What are ya feelin’, darlin’? You–” as he speaks, the searing heat of your skin steadily seeps into his hands and chest between which you’re sandwiched, “Jesus, you’re like the damn Sun.”

☆ He rids you of the blanket and in his sweetness, blows gently on your face, pushing your hair back. “M’feelin’ hot, ‘n’ cold. An’ my head hurts, an’ my ears hurt, an’ my throat hurts–” “Okay, darlin’, it’s alright.”

☆ Clumsy and groggy, he drags himself from the cot, a gentle coo leaving him when he hears you make a tired, wheezy sound in response to the shifting. “Arthur, where’re ya goin’?” He shushes you and kisses your sheeny forehead before he begins pulling on his clothes, “T’warm you some rum. N’then get you some supplies from town.”

☆ Once he’s dressed, he can’t resist a few more touches and kisses. He wraps one arm under your waist, his other hand cupping the base of your skull as he plants a tender kiss to your forehead and brushes his nose against yours. You give a sleepy, weak smile, your usually flushed lips now so pale and dry. Arthur shifts you in the cot, helping you get comfortable, “Now, you ain’t movin’ from here until I say. We can take a walk later on, okay?”

☆ He fetches you a tin mug of warmed rum and sits on the edge of the bed, lifting your head and carefully pours some into your mouth. You swallow and grimace, which warms Arthur’s worried features with the softest and fondest of looks. “There’s a girl, take some more. S’good for ya.”

☆ Despite his slight neuroticism when it comes to taking care of you, the worry that scribbles about the lining of his stomach, the need to get you better, Arthur is one of the best people to have around when you’re sick.

☆ He will only leave your side if it’s to get you something that will help you, like leaving for town to get you supplies such as cough drops, syrups, blankets, mustard packs, the works. If you’re really sick, he’ll politely but firmly order someone to make the visit for him.

☆ He’s a sweet but unyielding nurse. If you grouse about taking medicine, he will not hesitate to just shove the spoon into your mouth and clamp your mouth shut until you swallow, giving you silly kisses about your face and making playful “Nu-uh” “M-mm” sounds of reprimand with an impish glint in his eyes.

☆ Or if it’s about leaving the tent for a little fresh air, he’ll scoop you up and walk you to the edge of camp. He’ll sit himself down, letting you nestle in his lap swaddled in a blanket, “You musta caught the stubborn flu, th’way you’re actin’.” He’ll lean his cheek against your shoulder, tracing your poorly features with his concerned but fond gaze.

☆ He’s always tender with you, and it increases tenfold when you’re not well. He’ll help you change clothes, planting soft kisses on your shoulders and knees as he dresses or undresses you. “My sweet girl, take it easy.” “Lift your arms for me, sweetheart.” “That’s my girl. I know, I know, you’re feelin’ outta sorts. I’m here.”

☆ When your head starts to pound, he’ll cup the back of your head with one hand and hold the back of your neck with the other. He’ll kiss your forehead and very tenderly massage your scalp, “I see you frownin’. C’mon–” He’ll whisper, rubbing small, slow circles into your skin, urging you to let your head rest heavy in his palms, “That’s it, that helpin’?” When your lashes flutter and a weak affirmative sound slips from you, he continues for a long while, and will continue if you don’t ask him to stop.

☆ He’ll be the first at the stewpot, grabbing you a large bowl, whether you finish it or not– he just wants you to have enough. He’ll even prop you up on pillows and feed you bit by bit if you’re too unwell to feed yourself. “Can’t have my girl spillin’ stew over herself. Sit up for me darlin’.”

☆ He won’t care if he catches whatever you’re sick with, as long as you’re being cared for, nothing else matters. He’ll cuddle you as though you’re not damp with sweat. He’ll kiss you as though you’re not congested and have a good chance of coughing or sneezing into his face– he just laughs and wipes your face. If you’re very adamant about him not getting sick, he’ll at least kiss the pads of his fingers and press them to your skin, against whichever part of you he wants to love in that moment (usually quite a few places, until you’re giggling and coughing).

☆ He’ll spend so much time just laying with you, cradling you against him, talking about whatever comes into his head. He keeps his tone low and soothing, knowing full well that it helps you fall asleep and after all, sleep is the best medicine. “Did I tell you ‘bout that dog I saw yesterday? Little scrawny coppery-coloured thing, he was. Followed me ‘cause I’d been huntin’ an’ he could smell the blood… Come t’think of it, he reminded me of our Sean.”

☆ Sometimes he’ll quietly sing to you, some old camp songs, vague remnants of a song he remembers his mother singing, even humming pieces of songs he’s heard you sing while you work. Songs that he’s grown to love, songs that he has made an effort to sit and listen to, to learn from you, for you.

☆ Even when you’re pretty much better, he’ll make you take “jus’ one more day, darlin’.” To really make sure that you’re well. You’ll notice him checking you over, your complexion, listening to your breath, pressing his palms to your neck and chest and forehead, feeling your temperature. You’re not better until he deems you better in his mind.

Tags for my sweethearts: @thundermartini @zae-heeyyy @pinescent-and-gingerbread @frillydolle @arthurmorganist @thesweetestapplepie @thoughts-of-bear @kayyqua @thedilfdiaries - Apologies if I miss anyone, just dm me or comment below to have me tag/remove you <3

[rosaliepostsstuff]

Yes. From the very beginning.

Merlin Rewatch. Was anyone else in love with Sir Leon? Just me?

[rosaliepostsstuff]

I love your writing and umm if you're doing requests may I please request essentially the reverse of the fwb ones, where she and arthur are partners in crime and they're super sweet and couple-y best friends but are NOT together even though everyone in camp is like 'are they seriously not fucking???' And they're just mutually pining like idiots for years on end. I hope that made sense sorry if its weirdly specific i probably need therapy lol.

wc: 1.9k

tags: FLUFF!! pining Arthur.

Comfortable. Too comfortable. It was almost suspicious. Those were the exact words Susan Grimshaw would use to describe the pair of lovebirds that bumbled around camp as if completely enamoured in their own worlds. Those lovebirds not even being the crude Sean and babbling Karen or even Mary-Beth and the stuttering, nervous mess which was Kieran. No. It was the mere sight of you, the silver tongued bandit with her heart on her sleeve being so shamelessly sought out by the brooding, enigmatic man Arthur Morgan. To be completely fair on Grimshaw’s part, it wasn’t only her who held suspicions on the end of her finger when she would constantly wave it in front of your nose. The very close friendship the pair of you had knitted together came tangled with the inquiries of not only the women of camp, who bargained gossip for gossip by their washboards, but the men in camp who would throw sneaky, offhand remarks at the wind over a drink or game of poker. And yet, not much to everyone’s surprise that the pair of you would deny, deny, deny.

And who can blame them? It had become an almost domestic frame: the pair of you couldn’t help but to give in to the simple pleasures. Simple distractions. Mornings became rich in the same scene of Arthur trailing behind you to your routine which in return had become his routine. Knowing he would be gone on a job for most of the week, he prepares himself for the long departure in his own endearing way. Trailing behind you with ears low tucked behind his hat, he follows you to the glistening shores of Clemen’s Point the very mornings before departure. He’d sheepishly blush and sit on a rock nearby where you had already begun to wash your face in the cold, relieving sting of the water. With a palm tucked under his scarred chin and elbow resting on his knee, his body lumbered over to intently watch you. The use of conversation was pointless in the of quiet elysium which was the Clemen’s point waters so early in the morning that the moon still forged itself to the blue sky–so early in the morning it traps the pair of you in a capsule where no one else seemed to matter or intrude. When he can’t avoid your tickling suspicions, he scratches the back of his neck and hopes you didn’t think of him as any less of a man.

“You’re up early.” You draw first to jab at him.

“Gonna be busy today.. Coffee’s good when it’s hot.” He hides his real reason behind coffee beans and hot water, tipping his hat for extra perseverance.

“Really now?” You’d respond to him with conviction for his dishonesty and he shrugs. You pulled yourself up and rang water from your skirt.. “Could you get me a cup then?”

“Ain’t your dog, woman.” He’d mumble with no real bitterness, walking with a slow lumber towards the campfire where he lets his feelings for you swallow him up in his pathetic attempts to make you smile.

Caring for you had become a part of Arthur Morgan’s character. The aspect of grey clouds contorting you to anything but the carefree, happy woman who read to him on quiet nights and splashed in puddles on rainy days leaves him feeling utterly ashamed and bastardized. Arthur doesn’t know exactly when he realized it hurt so much to see you as anything but content and well fed, yet he succumbs to your rule and seems to crush himself beneath your thumb.

“You’re gonna get yourself sick like that.” He scolds you when you prance through the streaking, silver pelts of rain. You chase the rushing chill past the front steps of The Loft, stopped by the simple yearning to play with the riches of nature. If Ambarino could offer Arthur one thing, it was the ability to see you bask in the background of green and meadows of blurred wildflowers.

“So?” Water trickles down your back and seeps through the stitchings of your clothing and much to his prediction you push down the sting of cold with brilliance.

He laughs half-heartedly at that. “So? You whine like a dog for days with a stuffed nose, you ain’t foolin’ me.” He crosses his arms over his chest as if it’ll stagnate the humming in his body. He forces his head down to avoid the sting of his yearning for you. And yet, even when you pull him by his hands into the blur of pelting water he feels nothing but warmth in his vain attempt to preserve your health. And in the end, he’d rather it be both of you sipping hot stew in the quarantine of his tent than you by yourself in yours.

Though, you show you care for him as well, in sweeter and considerate terms of affection. When Arthur Morgan fails to take care of himself in negligence or in carelessness, you make up for it with not a word spoken in between them. With a bowl of fresh stew lightly garnished with creeping thyme personally plucked by you, you take it upon yourself to bring the moping man a meal when he’s too stubborn to grab one himself. When another robbery only left them with a quarter and law men too close to camp, you remind Arthur that he isn’t the cold steel of a gun but he was human.

“You ain’t gotta do that fa’ me.” Yet, when his thumb firmly brushes your hand in exchange, it speaks all the thank yous to you with the life in his eyes coming back.

He speaks thanks especially when he knows you need it. It isn’t uncommon for Grimshaw to have you fold the same 3 loads of laundry at the beginning of every morning, or force you to stick your nose to the mat and collect the dust through your nostrils and a broom. When the days begin to wax at you and you melt over the boil of your pot, Arthur knows he isn’t a smoothtalker yet he pats himself on the back for his saving grace.

He’ll bound up to you, confident with a chest puff of ash and yarrow pollen. Sometimes he’ll find you atop of a discarded barrel, you were already helping Pearson peel at potatoes, fingers tough and printed with the blunt side of the blade; But that thief needs to steal some more of your precious time.

“Put’chu shoes on. Need you to run an errand with me.”

“You busy? Could use a saddle warmer.”

He’ll almost always ask you with hands looped on his gun belt, naval tilting up as if to downplay his own request. However, on occasions where he is self-serving enough to pry you from the comfort of your tent, he’ll ask you to accompany him for no real particular reason. Well, of course he has his reasons. But who were you to say no to that handsome man.

Once in a while, when the brilliant summer sun would even dare to outshine your golden smile, he calls you over just by the banks to serve him in your musical lull. Pulling his sleeves up to the curl of his bicep, he swings an axe overhead with a thunderous strike of lightning and the logs of wood splinter effortlessly in his control and he only pauses to call your name from the crowd. Finger pointing a spotlight to you as you make your way. “You.”

“Me?” You make your way over with a fluttering skirt and the breath of lilac that calls your name in its aroma. “What about me?”

“Need you to read for me.” An awkward hand gestures to the book safely tucked under your arm and with a hell of a lot better to do such as washing and cooking you sit down in a shady patch of lime grass and flip to page 25 of your book. There, with the trees swelling at every gale of bird songs and the smell of oak and cedar, you read to him from your spot where your skirt pools on the floor and makes his heart tick with endearment. When he fails to force his face down into the heat of his work, he allows himself to sneak fleeting glances of you and your pretty skirt. Capturing you in his mind was no different than a fully realized photograph, he knew you well enough to not have to remember which way your hair parted and how you liked to wear ribbons in your clothing. When you do catch him looking, he ducks his head with an apology too quiet for you to hear but just for him to save his pride. And you laugh, because the shades of red that paint his stubble face wasn’t due to the pounding sun in the sky but the drumming of his heart.

Arthur Morgan’s criminality didn’t leave him much room for care and domesticity. The soft blazing skin of a woman had become unfamiliar and alien to him as dreams of Tahiti or god knows what. Death’s waiting arms was by far going to be the closest thing he’ll get to a white lacy wedding, yet when the noose slips and it tightens it’s hold on him, a nagging itch in his body tells him your boot isn’t fitting as it usually did or you’ve been losing track of your rings and dainty necklaces that seem to only fit your perfect skin. And heaven knows he cannot even imagine death's eternal sleep if you were not properly looked out for.

It wasn’t the prettiest sight, though he has to admit it to himself, to tear away trinkets and gold from the hands of anyone unfortunate enough to ride down his trail. With a sinful thumb he wipes sweat lining the indents of his forehead and dismounts with a heavy footfall directed towards your yellow starched tent canvas. He pulls open the canvas but not before announcing his entrance like the gentleman that he was.

And yet, when he’s able to string together enough money he buys you those new amber shaded boots with dark rose embroidery running along its stump. Once in a perfect pale moon he cobbles together enough to buy you a new necklace to replace the one you left in Valentine, and the embellished swelling of your already tinted pink cheeks makes the blood in his hands tingle when he gives you the delicate items. He is adamant on doing it to serve you, to make your life a little easier in the light of the coming summer. Even when you kiss his cheek and whisper your thanks and praise, he dares to let his smile show any more crooked teeth. His reasons are albeit, a little more selfish than he cares to admit.

“Look at that face, Morgan! She gave you a good one this time, ain’t she?” Sean croons from his spot at the table like a crow with a face kissed red in liquor.

“Gave me more than what you’ll get in 10 years, fool.” He deflects with a dismissive hand when he b-lines for his tent. Despite all the accusatory remarks and comments, he bounds to his tent with a smile on those thinly curved lips, because something about everyone assuming you were his as he was yours had only fed into his hopeless desires. Arthur Morgan knew he was out of his mind for yearning for you, but he had lost half of it to the violence. And lord knows he deserves to lose the rest of it to love.

[rosaliepostsstuff]

RDR2 Characters as Youtube videos/screenshots

[rosaliepostsstuff]

‘a cigarette after sex’

wc: 1.8k

tags: fluff, mutual pining. Friends w benefits Arthur PT2. Mentions of sex.

author note: technically an addition to ‘a quiet night’ cause i’m starting to rlly like this friends w benefits Arthur wanting more. will work on requests soon :)

Rich alcohol bubbles laughter from the gang sitting below Arthur’s windowsill, a roaring fire tying together the sound of soft guitar and disorganized melodies. Despite the amusement everyone had danced in, Arthur Morgan had no intention of joining any of them that night on the fun.

What a gorgeous view. Arthur’s mind reels in blanks when he takes a moment to look at you. Back turned to him, he let his eyes drop and rise over you. With a body still slick on the afterglow of sex and sweat, you draped yourself bare over the edge of his springy cot with elbows dug into the linen sheet. The fire dances in your eyes. Peering from where you laid, you gazed down from the window of his Shady Belle room where the two of you laid in the nest of warmth and weakness. Arthur understands that it is weakness that shreds him of his pride and volition everytime you find your way back into his bed. With your body naked, pale moonlight sends a cascading waterfall of silver down the plains of your back. The slight dewy moisture that collects on your skin only sends him reminders of your passionate haze of affection just a few minutes ago. He hopes you’ll stay like this just a moment longer. He lets his mind stray to the vivid recollection of you folded in half beneath him, dirty words and pleads that he pulled from your breath with every rough chase of his hips and heat of his mouth.

Yet, even with the pretty sight of you blissed out, high on the euphoric edge that Arthur seems to teeter you on, he doesn’t think anything can compare to your beauty after the fact. Though, he’ll never admit that to you, not until you tell him it’s what you wanted to hear. With a chest that ached of longing, he revels in the way you soaked in the cold, frosted air of the night as if you had belonged among the banisters of stars. He breathes you in a long moment, a little too long for him to call it friendly. If he were to be more honest to himself, he’d acknowledge full well that there was nothing friendly about the two of you.

He gets an idea. A stupid one, one that’ll surely leave him a foolish man. Even then, he understands that this is a view that he would burn into the skin of his bones if he could. Extending his arm, he reaches for the brown leatherback journal that sits by the side of the bed. His broad shoulders creak like old mahogany wood, the naked planes of his chest chiseled like a greek god. When his pencil lightly taps among the smooth cover, you turn around and he’s met with those punishing, darling eyes of yours that burns his composure to nothing but ash. Arthur knew he was in deep, yet it still makes him ache when you catch him in such a moment of endearment. Your eyes land on his journal and pencil, corners of your mouth twitching into that cherry flavored smile.

“Gotcha’.” Your words fall husky on his ears and he can’t help but scoff shamelessly at his own mistake, even indulging in the way you shifted your bare body back to face him.

“You got me.” He gruffly responds, lifting his hand that rested on his journal up in the air as if signalling his defeat. Quick woman. He hopes you’re too slow to notice his ears burn in slight embarrassment.

This has become quite the pattern for the both of you. Ever since you had both been aware of Arthur’s slight favoring of you and vice versa. Moments of weakness began to bleed into your camping trips, you two began to sneak away every time the moment was right to satiate each other’s needs–A hotel or into the sweet confines of his canvas tent. Only–the need for you didn’t seem to disappear even after healing his soul to the sweet music of your whines and moans. No, he finds himself hungering for the perfect moments after the fact. Moments such as this one.

“Were you just gonna sit there in silence the whole time?” The words play off of your tongue lightly, head tilted ever so slightly to get a better look at him in the flickering candle light. The lines around his mouth are pulled together into a feigned scowl, crows' feet scrunching up along with the bridge of his nose when he begins to quip at you.

“Nah. Just wondering what you’ve been eyeing down there for so long. Practically burned a hole into the damn windowsill.” His expression rests on its stoic pout that seems to never leave his face, not wanting to give you the satisfaction of amusement. Yet, you could tell he was already quite infatuated. You glance back to the distant chatter of the campfire alone and Arthur can see the thoughts steam from your head by the way your eyes flicker. Shifting comfortably, you melt back into the dark sheets of the bed and he tries to not let his eyes linger on you for any longer than dignifying. He believes that the deep seated fondness he holds for you will eventually fade and dwindle if he chooses to not indulge in it. Yet his contradicting mind and body betrays his pride constantly; and as he gets a better look at you in the candlelight, soft embers illuminating your radiating, halo glow with wildflower petals still colorfully strewn about in your hair. You still smelled of sweet citrus and fruit, all he can do is selfishly long.

“Just thinkin.’” You point to his side of the bed to the box of half empty cigarettes and he doesn’t hesitate to supply you with your bitter relief. You notice how despite the creased line of his forehead and the rough, pinched furrow of his brow that his candid crystalline eyes were nothing short of tender.

“Enlighten me.” He pulls his own cigarette from the box before handing it to you, but you simply pluck the cigarette that he stuck between his fingers and slot it into your own mouth. That earns you that toothy smile, a grin pulls his cheeks into creases and he looks down to preserve any of his composure.

You find the lighter that was sitting on your floor of the bed along with your cream laced clothing and golden brass shoes, ever so carelessly and impatiently discarded in your passionate affair. You can’t help but feel the piercing diamond eyes of your lover scale your back as you lean over the creaking cot. As if the tension in his stare was coated in whiskey and fire, you feel your face burn hot like coal. You pull yourself back up. Giving into the thick and dry pull on his throat, he shamelessly watches the bruises and bites that blossomed along your chest and stomach fade back into view when you have finally retrieved the lighter. Another grin threatens to curve his lips. “Tilly and Beth probably wondering where I am about now..” You fumble with the silver lighter for a second when Arthur’s hand instinctively reaches out to help you, only for you to catch the wispy flame in its last moment, chest puffing in pride. “I won’t hear the end of it from those two like this..” That melodic laugh is pulled in strings from your lips when you gaze down at yourself. Deep violets and red seem to blossom along your flesh like petals, hurting ever so pleasurable.

“You’ll be in your dress, you'll be fine.” The image licks flames at Arthur’s mind and he can’t help but let embarrassment run heat through his body in a hot flash. He had gotten carried away this time. Pulling smoke through your soft cherry lips, you hum softly at his comment, handing the cigarette back to him. He sits up, looking down at your naked figure and he feels his throat tighten. “You can go and join them if you want, y’know.” He rasps, quiet as if his tail was tucked between his legs. Quiet as if he didn’t want you to. He hopes the smoke will get rid of the buzzing in his brain, an electric shock shooting through his body as soon as he tastes the bitter paper on his lip.

You roll over on your side to face him, body still melted so comfortably into the sheets as if you were meant to lay beside him for the rest of your life. And a part of him hopes that is the case. “Do you want me to?”

“To what?” He muses for a second.

“To leave.” You say just as quickly, taking the cigarette from his scarred, hair laced knuckles and fingers.

“Hell no, I don’t want you to leave.” He hopes his answer came out confident, smooth unlike the way the apple of his throat bobbed nervously. He hoped it charmed you, because it earned a soft giggle from your lips. It was those moments of soft giggling, whether it was between sweet, heady kisses or laughter just talking back and forth that made him realize that this relationship the two of you held was far past being friendly.

“No?” You reach for the cigarette, hand deliberately brushing against his hand for another brief, electric moment.

“No..” His voice had gotten a little quieter. “Like I said, you’re fine company.” He watches the smoke fill your lungs, the last remnants of your lipstick smearing onto the cigarette when you had wetly kissed it.

You smile through the smoke and he's quick to notice the red that crawls up your face just as thick and sunny. You let the smoke billow from your body, face turned ever so slightly to the side as to not punish him in your intoxicating air. “I’ll stay then.” He forces his smile down at your answer, trading the rough callous in his hand for a cigarette from yours.

He gets a final look at your body, letting the image burn into his mind as he finally spills back into the cot, eyes finding the ceiling of his room. You both watch the smoke spill from his lips, filling the air above you in a haze of unspoken affection. There was no need for a trade of words right now, anyways. Though he will be sorely disappointed to not have gotten that sketch of you, thick graphite lines shadowing the plush of your hips and the thin flicks of his pencil highlighting the glow of your back—he believes this was just as good. Hell. It was even better.

[rosaliepostsstuff]

Red Dead Redemption 2 (2018) dev. Rockstar Games

[rosaliepostsstuff]

JEALOUS HEADCANONS

For most of the Van Der Linde Gang ୨୧

➤ Arthur Morgan, John Marston, Micah Bell, Dutch Van der Linde, Hosea Matthews, Josiah Trelawny, Kieran Duffy, Charles Smith, Sean MacGuire, Lenny Summers, Sadie Adler, Karen Jones, Mary-Beth Gaskill, Molly O’Shea x F!Reader

Note: you ever just pull something out of your ass and it… works?

ARTHUR MORGAN

He can’t help it sometimes. The way he handles his jealousy varies, but most of the time, he would want to bottle it up - thinking it’s a silly thing. You weren’t making him jealous, he knows that. He’s making himself, due to the severe lack of self-esteem he has.

At first, the man would watch silently, observing how happy you looked. Sure, he could use some attention, too — he thinks, but there isn’t any harm with you having fun. Although the man can’t help but frown at the sight.

He doesn’t want to confront you. If he ever decides to stop watching you like a hawk — he would stand beside you and flash a raised eyebrow. “Hey, honey.”

“Who… ya talkin’ to?”

It’s pretty obvious, even though he likes to believe it isn’t.

JOHN MARSTON

He notices your prolonged attention and time spent with someone, and he doesn’t mind — at first. He convinces himself you’ll stop soon, and you’ll be left alone. But it doesn’t.

He spends the whole day sulking, trying to do other things, but his thoughts still linger. He wishes it was him, why couldn’t it just be him? He was right there.

The man, who tries to talk, is kind of stubborn. “Think that’s enough, talkin’ to my wife.” He states simply. But there’s something deeper within his words.

He has a stupid-looking scowl on his face, whispering to himself and crossing his arms. “I don’t like how he’s lookin’ at ya.”

MICAH BELL

He won’t admit it — but under that façade of not caring, there’s a sliver of it under his thick skin. But he wouldn’t act on it, no, you could do whatever the hell you wanted.

He’s quiet, like always, but a little bit more this time, looking at you with simple glances occasionally as he sharpens his knife. The man lets out a groan of pain when he accidentally cuts himself. “Great.” And he realizes, he won’t stop thinking about it, will he?

“Who were ya talking to?” He asks. When you ask him why, he avoids the question. “No reason.”

He’ll never admit he gets jealous, however, his tense mood looms over wherever he goes.

DUTCH VAN DER LINDE

When Dutch is jealous, he’s jealous. A marathon of thoughts run in his mind like a train. Why would she be smiling and laughing with another man’s presence, rather than his? No, it’s unacceptable.

The man approaches you immediately. No time for dilly-dallying, and he just can’t take in the sight. “Wat’cha doin’, sweetheart?” There’s something amusing about the way he’s placed a hand on your hip, trying his best to be able to smile, at least.

Dutch who doesn’t really explain why he’s acting this way, but it’s obvious with his actions alone, taking you away for himself and his attention all on you.

HOSEA MATTHEWS

He knows and trusts you enough not to get jealous. He knows you love him as much as he does. Although, maybe, in his most vulnerable times, he does — just once.

He looks at you from afar, with an uncertain look in his face. He’s gotten a little uneasy, sipping a cup of coffee that doesn’t even taste like anything. He tries to read newspaper, but the words just look like gibberish. The man shakes his head, how silly of him. He hasn’t felt this in a while.

He waits until the end of the day, trying his best to shake the feeling off. But it doesn’t, and you notice. “Can you believe it? I actually got jealous.”

Just kiss him, and he’ll be alright.

CHARLES SMITH

He isn’t jealous, he convinces himself. But there’s something about it. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like feeling this way — after all, he knows you were merely talking withs someone else.

Someone else who isn’t him.

He shakes the thought off. You’ll later find Charles oddly pushing himself with hunting and chores, glistening in sweat and heat.

He’ll be quiet, at first, when asked — appearing calm. But his thoughts are the complete opposite. It doesn’t take a genius to realize his inner turmoil.

He’ll tell you the truth, though. He always does. He just needs a little reassurance.

JAVIER ESCUELLA

It’s hard to mask his jealousy when his face uncontrollably grimaces. He’s upset, walking around, in a bad mood. He’ll tie his hair messily. He’ll strum the strings of his guitar with irritation. He’ll twist the pegs, completely absent-minded, trying to tune it, as the string snaps directly on his nose bridge.

He curses under his breath. He gets up, holds your hand tightly, and leads you away, without explanation.

“I’m jealous.” He says, blood running down his nose. “And I’ve made it obvious, you know.” Javier looks like a wet cat.

“What was so important with him, anyway?” He asks, with a scoff. He’s trying to act tough, but he’s currently got himself buried in your arms, with a bandage on his nose.

SEAN MACGUIRE

There’s no one more dramatic than him. A day without interaction would, and does drive him crazy — if he already isn’t. A jealous Sean jokes around, teases you, tries to get your attention. This trick usually works.

But it doesn’t, today. He’s walking, following you around, watching you talk to everyone except him. Times are busy, he’s afraid, you’ll find someone else who’s better than him.

For once, he’s a little serious. Nervous, on his toes. He’s murmuring, and laughing awkwardly as he stands there. “Me? Jealous? No, no. I don’t get jealous, hah.”

“I am…”

LENNY SUMMERS

He’s had his hands tucked in his pockets for a while now, trying to understand what he was feeling, exactly. He waited around, kicking some rocks. He didn’t want to seem upset, but he was. No doubt.

Poor boy. Lenny doesn’t want to say anything, he doesn’t want to talk to you about it. He didn’t want to seem selfish, or come off in that way. But he couldn’t stop stealing glances at your figure, his thoughts may as well eating him up alive.

His actions are off — uncoordinated, distracted, thinking endlessly. He can’t help it. “Are you busy?”

His jealousy is silent, but not towards you, specifically. He’ll open up, when he’s holding your hands tenderly, but won’t reveal the thoughts of uncertainty that once skipped in his mind.

KIERAN DUFFY

It’d be hard for him to accept the fact that he’s jealous. He’ll deny himself most of the time. But he was, and he knew it. He’d been brushing Branwen’s mane for about fifteen minutes now, unable to tear his eyes away.

He’s not sure what he’s doing, exactly, when he coughs behind you and looks at whoever you were with. “Hey, ah… Who’s this?”

For now, he’ll have to push away his own needs, and he understands that. But he’ll be beside you, curling his fingers between yours, interlocking it tightly.

JOSIAH TRELAWNY

There’s enough confidence in him to reassure himself and let you be, most of the time. Although that doesn’t mean he’s not needy. That, he will be.

There’s a loneliness that creeps up his chest when he isn’t with you, when he’s away. He’ll think about you. Trelawny squints his eyes at the person in front of you, taking a bit too much of your time for his liking. As he says, it ‘pains him not being near you.’

“My dear, why don’t we go ahead now?” He coos sweetly. He’s trying his hard, and his best, to be cute. He grins when he wins, celebrating like a child and taking your hand in his.

SADIE ADLER

It’s not often she’ll get envious, while it is easy to provoke her. She’ll say a word, or two, or a few sentences — when it’s needed.

She’ll cock a brow, place a hand on her hip as she watches for a moment. Maybe she’ll wait a staggering one minute before she goes and joins the conversation. The woman smiles at you, and asks. “Hey, honey. Who’re you talking to?” And look at the man in front of you with a now neutral expression. She has no interest, whatsoever, only to you.

“Well, we really have to go now, sir. Surely ya won’t mind if I take her back, right? I know ya won’t. ‘Cause she ain’t yours.” It’s hard to prevent whatever spews out of her mouth.

KAREN JONES

“So yer gonna talk to her the whole night, that it?” You hear from behind you, Karen says to who you’re talking to. It’s not common for her to get jealous, but she’ll let you know. It’s a little scary, really, the way she can be so blunt.

Expect her to be, initially, in a not so bright mood.

Maybe she’ll even drink a bottle or two, in nights without you beside her. Jealousy’s a nasty thing, and she tries to keep in check. Her tongue is loose, though, she can’t do much about it.

MARYBETH GASKILL

She’s been peeking, looking around who you were with the past hour. The book in her hands, suddenly becomes a little harder to read. She wants to talk to you, be with you — but that apparently can’t be done.

She’ll come to you, a little shy, smiling a little. “Who’re you talking to, [Reader]?” Pretty please will you go and talk to me instead? It’s written all over her face. She doesn’t really understand why not, you see.

It’s not along before you’re eventually dragged away. Sometimes you don’t even notice. She’s sneaky like that, has a penchant for averting your attention to her. Although with good intention.

MOLLY O’SHEA

She understands, you’re a busy person. And that means you lend a lot of time to other people, and talk to them, and go with them. Your attention, love, and care has always been enough for her. But she always thinks, and thinks.

Molly notices the little things. The way your body is close, the way your elbows and hands slightly brush against some people. It upsets her to an extent where you’ll find her huddled away, just waiting for you to visit her.

“It’s nothing.” But she’ll crack the next moment and tell you all about how she’s been lonely, and how she missed you. “Do you still love me? I do.”

Tell her you do. All she needs is a little reassurance.

[rosaliepostsstuff]

My heart swells reading any piece where Arthur lives, because that's what he goddamn deserves. Kudos to you author, this was just lovely.

Salt and Pepper | Arthur Morgan / Reader

Word count : 1.4k Summary : Arthur notices his hair is starting to gray. I saw a post on here about Arthur with salt and pepper hair and I couldn’t stop myself hehe. Warnings/Tags : talk about death, getting old, Arthur loves his wife, no tb, Arthur and reader own a house, mention of past gang members, cursing, lots of fluff, self deprecation on Arthur’s side, bullets, mention of weight gain (in a positive way)

“Godamn ugly bastard.” Arthur huffed, his gaze piercing as he looked into the mirror. He hadn’t meant to have himself a pity party this morning. In fact he was feeling quite fine this morning before looking in the small bathroom mirror. Waking up next to you always puts a spring in his step. Especially when he’s waking up in a real bed, underneath a soft quilt that you happened to sew in some free time. Mismatched patches and all, it was his favorite thing in the small home you two shared. Hell, you were becoming quite domestic ever since the house was completed.

But he wasn’t exactly expecting to find gray hair sprouting from his hairline. He wasn’t that old, was he?

“Jesus.” He sighed, inspecting further he realized it wasn’t one or two gray hairs, it was almost twenty. Hidden under his longer than normal locks after forgoing a haircut for the last couple weeks. He was surprised you hadn’t noticed them, especially with how much you loved to run your fingers through his hair. Although, he loved it just as much, maybe even more.

God, he needed to get rid of these before you saw them. He was sure you had some tweezers around here somewhere. He opened up your drawer, rifling around for your tweezers. Bingo. His hands gripped the small piece of metal, a triumphant smile on his face.

It was only once he looked back up into the mirror, determined to fix this issue before you woke up, that he noticed you padding into the bathroom. Rubbing sleep from your eyes, you wrapped your arms around his middle.

“Mornin’.” You hummed, laying your cheek against his bicep, smiling sweetly at him through the mirror.

“Mornin’.” He said, clearing his throat.

“What do you need those for?” You asked, eyeing the tweezers in his hand. Caught red handed, he tried coming up with some excuse.

“Nothin’ sweetheart.” He said, giving you his signature smile, kissing your forehead. He slipped the tweezers into his pocket for safe keeping, at least until he had a free moment without you around. After all those years on the run and he could come up with nothing, Hosea would have been so disappointed in his lack of an answer. He swore he could hear the old man chastising him now.

“For a former outlaw you sure are an awful liar.” You tutted, shaking your head, slipping your fingers into his pocket and pulling out the tweezers.

“Well it ain’t my fault,” He huffed playfully, “Could never get nothin’ past you anyway.” He said, rubbing the back of his neck. You removed your hands from around his waist, leaning back on the sink as you looked up at him.

“Spill.” You said raising an eyebrow, your arms crossed over your chest.

Knowing he’d been caught, Arthur hung his head, a low sigh leaving his lips.

“It’s just-“ He cursed, turning to look away from you, “Well I’m goin’ gray.” He admitted, not meeting your eyes.

“And?” You asked in such a nonchalant manner.

“And?” He asked looking up at you, his brows furrowed.

“So you have some gray hairs.” You said with a shrug, “You’re acting like the damn world is ending.” You chuckled softly, a smile tugging on your lips.

“Well-“ Arthur sighed, pursing his lips, he didn’t want to be vain but damn it, it did feel like the world was ending.

“Honey.” You said softly, reaching up to cup his cheek. “Ain’t nothing wrong with some gray hairs.” You said, shaking your head, looking so goddamn patient as always. What he did in a past life to deserve you he would never know, he definitely didn’t deserve you in this one. You smiled, running your thumb over his couple day old stubble. He couldn’t help but sigh softly, leaning into your touch.

“Just makes me feel old ‘s all.” He shrugged, closing his eyes.

“Arthur.” You said softly, he opened his eyes. His bright azure pools looking into yours. “Getting old means we’re still alive.” You said pointedly, not missing the way your fingers trailed lightly down his chest.

He sighed softly, anyone who said he was the most like Hosea had obviously never had a one on one conversation with you. You had shared the same dry wit along with being just as wise as the old man. Sometimes he wondered if the two of you were more closely related than just being adopted by him as a kid.

As your hand settled over his heart, he couldn’t help but remember a time when you didn’t have this place. When his next breath had been an undeserved blessing. When you and Charles had pulled his broken body off that godforsaken mountain. You were right, he should be grateful for these gray hairs and new lines on his face. Should be grateful that he made it this far out west with you, where the air was dryer and slowly his lungs didn’t hurt as bad with each breath.

If anything he should be grateful that you’re here, here in this house. The house that he built specifically for you. That you’re not buried six feet under like most of the fellow gang members. That you didn’t catch a bullet like Lenny or Sean, how he wished they could have had the chance to grown old. Even as mouthy as Sean was, the poor bastard didn’t deserve that. Lenny was just a boy, foolish enough to be sucked in by Dutch’s silver tongue. He shook his head trying to clear any thoughts of the past.

God, along with the fact that somehow both of you still happen to be standing, the fact that you chose to stand by him after everything you went through makes his head swim. You could have left him at any point, hell he had begged you to leave after his death sentence. And yet, here you were.

“Guess you’re right.” He said, a small smile tugging on his lips.

“Course I am.” You teased, a smile spreading across your face. You leaned forward, brushing your nose against his. He accepted your silent invitation, pressing his lips against yours. So soft and warm and inviting. He could feel you smile against his lips. That small smile warmed him from the inside out, nearly making his toes curl.

Jesus, he was lucky. More than lucky, he still couldn’t figure out how he had tricked you into marrying him. He wanted to be the best version of himself for you, he had made a promise to try every day to be a better man for you. You shouldn’t be tied down to a miserable old fool like himself.

As if you could read his mind, which he often suspected you could, your soft voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

“Besides,” You began as you pulled away, “I like the salt and pepper look.” Arthur scoffed, shaking his head.

“Really?” He asked, raising a brow.

“Really.” You nodded, running your hand through his hair. “Think you get more handsome every day.” If anyone was getting prettier every day it was you. Your hair was longer, cascading down your shoulders in waves. No longer tied up in a tight braid or bun. You looked relaxed, at peace. You became softer once you both settled into your new lifestyle. Not just emotionally, although you still had that fire which had first drawn him towards you, like a moth to a flame. You were physically softer, your harsh edges smoothing out as you started to eat and sleep better. Your curves became more prominent, and he certainly didn’t mind having more to hold onto late at night.

Maybe you truly did feel the same about him. He had never known you to lie. A blush settled on his cheeks at the thought. He shook his head, a small chuckle rumbling through his chest.

“Yeah, alright darlin’.” He says taking your face in his hands, kissing you again before you had the chance to embarrass him further.

Maybe getting old wasn’t so bad if you had someone to grow old with.

[rosaliepostsstuff]

Will you ever finish the Aleia iacta est series?

Possibly, can't say 'no' for sure. When I was still holding onto hopes about writing, it was my priority, but I don't really write anymore.

Not only am I out of practice but also, interaction died on this blog before I even stopped writing and it stopped bringing me joy.

I had plans for 18 parts total and have half of part 15 in drafts still, so maybe one day I'll make a comeback like some legendary fic writers 😂 Sorry to disappoint.

[rosaliepostsstuff]

[rosaliepostsstuff]

*merlins magic gets exposed in front of the knights*

merlin, magic user: oh fuck

arthur, finally taking this opportunity to pretend as if he just found out merlin has magic after agonizing for the past month on how to bring it up: you have magic?

lancelot, merlin defender, already knew of merlin’s magic: no! i have magic

gwaine, merlin defender, already knew of merlin’s magic, lover of chaos, ride or die: no, i have magic!

mordred, desperate for his hero’s approval bc no matter what he’s done emrys just stares at him with distrust and the poor boy is tired and so close to tears: no…i have magic.

percival, raised by druids and bonded strongly with mordred over that and does Not agree with the persecution of magic in camelot, had an inkling that merlin had magic but no proof: no. i have magic.

*leon and elyan exchange a look, elyan, amused and leon, exhausted, elyan shrugs*

elyan, knows how much gwen adores merlin and completely understands her stance bc merlin…is merlin, down to clown and put on a show, really playing up the dramatics: no! i have magic.

leon, exhausted, has known of merlin’s magic since he stepped foot in camelot, knows of his feelings for arthur and arthur’s feelings for him, knows arthur knows of merlin’s magic and wouldn’t harm him, thinks everyone is being absolutely ridiculous:

*the knights stare hard at leon and even merlin looks slightly offended at leon not jumping to his defense with the rest of the knights, arthur hasn’t said anything and is staring at leon expectantly*

leon, sighing: …no. i have magic.

[rosaliepostsstuff]

Are you going to write any more Hogwarts Mystery ff? Specifically Talbott? 🥺

Realistically, no. Not in the nearest future, at least.

Before I went on hiatus, the interaction on my blog dropped to almost none, so I just stopped enjoying writing.

I'm happy that some people still find my fics, it really brings joy to see it. Maybe one day?

Sending love ❤️

[rosaliepostsstuff]

Me, letting my mutuals know they’re valid

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terrible valentine's day cards: merlin edition