#read dead redemption fluff

[lacaptaine]

Summer Scribblin'

DISCLAIMER: I MAY HAVE TAGGED IT AS ARTHUR WITH READER BUT IT ISN'T ROMANCE, JUST FLUFF, AND CUTE FAMILY LIKE DYNAMIC. THANKS.

Hello, this is my first contribution to fandom ever and like; I barely write. Just so you know, I am no writer, unless I feel like it. I needed to however get this idea out of my system, because I believe Arthur deserves to feel a little happy for a moment. I'm leaving a link to ao3, but there's also a tumblr text version below. : )

Arthur Morgan has a soft spot for children, change my mind.

WORD COUNT: 2,391

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SUMMARY: He may be a terrible man; until a child comes along. That's where his heart melts, paternal instincts kicking in rather immediately. With that, we see the Outlaw finding himself enjoying the presence of a peculiar youngling, who doesn't seem to speak much.

Humid was the air on this land, almost like one would jump into a pot of boilin' stew. It almost felt impossible to breathe at times, many of 'em outlaws seekin' shelter under the confines of tree leaves, some optin' for minimum amount of layers to cover their bodies. Terrible damn weather.

One of 'em outlaws, 'spite the rather unpleasant conditions, still decided to sit in here and scrawled like an angry, bad man that he can be, his large hand holdin' his pen in a tight grip, its tip runnin' in quick strokes. His brows were pulled down, creating a fresh pairs of wrinkles on his sweaty forehead. One of the fellow members of his gang, whose mouth ain't ever stopped runnin', had a lot of things to say 'bout today's action in the town, criticising his alleged lack of backbone. Fuckin' moron; one who'd rather come in 'n watch everyone's brains splatter all over the walls, at times leaving one wondering whether the numbers matter to him only in terms of money, or with the numbers in question being 'bout casualities. The higher the amount for both, the better he felt, one would assume. The cowboy's fingers stroked over slicked strands of blonde hair as he sighed deeply. He ain't got the patience for the bastard, and he's come to realise that it is indeed better for the sake of keepin' it together if he'd ignore him. After all, at the end of the day, the moron's gettin' real kick out of it. He's just a waste of breath, waste of space, waste of mind, waste of food, waste of... 

Alright, maybe he will focus on appreciating the wildlife, instead. 

After he was done with givin' his frustrations a little outlet, rather than a bullet to the previously mentioned fella's head, he turned the page, and opted for drawing, a particular hare catching the man's attention. It didn't move, so it proved to be a perfect opportunity for him to drown in the world of, uh... bunnies. It's better than causin' more fuss.

Not so long later, a gentle padding of boots against the ground reached the man's trained ears; however, suspecting that it's just one of the gang members passin' by, he didn't bother lookin' up, having found nothing close to eagerness for conversation. At some moment, soft footfall stilled on the grass, right next to him, what he assumed could be someone waitin' for him to speak.

'What is it?' he inquires, rugged voice rasping out, in a manner which one might find threatening, blue eyes remaining set straight on the paper in front of him. The answer, however, has never been granted to him, deepening the scowl on his face. Leaving the questions hangin' in the air was always a lil' bit of a burden. 'Whaddya-'

With a turn of his head, his sight is welcomed by a particular person, a new... rather small member of their gang, leaving cowboy's face scribbled with bewilderment. She stood there, her height barely reaching past his reclined form, her facial structure being an epitome of innocence. Tiny hands clasped right in front of herself, her head bowed like one of a fawn's. 

'If that ain't... hey,' he greeted, having cleared his throat. 'I, uh... You want somethin'?' The outlaw fixed his expression almost immediately, opting to give a child a smile which oozed warmth and safety, almost forgetting 'bout whatever the hell's been on his mind just a second ago. He wouldn't want to scare the youngling with a a mean look; 'specially since he was able to see her own cheeks roundin' up into a bashful smile itself. She couldn't have been livin' here on this earth for longer than five years, though he cannot tell with them kids. What he knows is that the man has a special set of behaviours reserved for small folks like her, and that the poor thing needs friendly faces to get accustomed to. He is a terrible man, one that kills, one that beats people up and robs the hell outta 'em, but he didn't have the heart to just be another mean bastard when it came to children.

There's a case of her peculiarity that everyone's been rackin' their brains about. First, the kid didn't speak. No one was able to come up with the reason; she seemed to hear just fine, although she merely responded with a glance; if she bothered sparing one, which brings another aspect. It could always been 'bout the fact that she were a little one, nevertheless, eye contact proved to be challenging for her; her gaze always averting as soon as someone returned her own. It left several members wondering about the history behind this quiet girl, other than the tragic circumstances surrounding her discovery. For now, they opted to making the child feel like at home. She hadn't got anyone else to turn towards, with the The Outlaw finding the lost youngling alongside the Leader of the gang a few months back. Her wailing, and a couple of lifeless bodies were enough backstory for them to come to a conclusion that the poor child was utterly alone in this harsh world.

With that, the man suddenly realised that it is the first time he's able to see the colour of her eyes, the curious lookers taking in the sight of a journal in his hands; more specifically, scribbles he had done a few days back when he was on his journey through the forests of West Elizabeth; as the pages turned when he wasn't holding them in place. He always had it with him, this journal; something about the world around him capturing his interest everytime, with paper providing space for his thoughts, or even doin' as much as letting him capture quickly what he had seen. Interestingly shaped trees, wonderfully coloured flowers, animals; funny lookin' or not, always ended up finding their own place in his journal. It ain't like he shared it with anyone, it was after all so personal to the man. A child, however, was enamoured by little drawings he did, fascinated by the details of a wild hare on a page, her tiny mouth slightly open. With one last glance at the man, she hesitatantly took a step towards him, with an expectant gaze, her finger pointed towards the small patch of grass next to him. 

'You, uh...' The Cowboy repeats her gesture awkwardly. '... Wanna sit with me?' No response aside from an endearing tilt of her head, as if he were lookin' at a pup. He found himself unable to resist a gentle laugh, even if he were quite unsure of how to go on about with this one. Something 'bout this youngling just had him in her tiny grasp; that much was clear. She needed someone to make her feel safe, having her childhood ruined in such a cruel manner. Warmth washed over him; because it truly is the first since she were able to hold the eye contact with him, as if she were finally opening herself up. 'Alright, come here, Lil' one.'

Perhaps, it will be best if he were to repeat himself, that's for sure. In an inviting manner his large hand moved, tapping it against the green ground next to him, the seat she eagerly took. 

'Ah... Look at you, comin' outta your shell, yeah?' He encouraged further, with the toddler glancing up at the man's face once more, with a small giggle. Then what follows... Silence. As usual. A nod of his head, and he thinks for a moment, feeling her stare on him. "What should he do?", he wonders, scratching his rough chin as he tries to think of ways he could entertain the child... While she ran tiny fingers over the clean sheet of paper, as if she found the texture rather fascinating. Ah, well, it... it's his... Well, private belonging or whatever, but it ain't like the kid will steal his journal and run away with it, no. She is very polite when she makes a bashful gesture of her hand, as if to ask him if she may hold it, if she can use the sheets of paper, and something about it just melts his cold heart, devoid of any kindness, or so, as he likes to believe...

'Here you go,' he said simply, the journal traversing through his hands to her own, because for how long can he resist his paternal instinct, the one he thought had died a long time ago? He's a bad man, he thinks. The youngling skips over the pages with words, a natural instinct to be more drawn towards the pictures of flowers he'd made.

'My, a real connoisseur of art,' the man laughed, but the girl haven't looked up at him, her eyes observing the sketch of a deer with intrigue. 'Not like I'm, uh... any artist or somethin'...' He was a tad awkward, that's for damn sure. He was a rugged outlaw after all, a terrible man, robber and a killer of the worst sort. Seein' small folk like her just makes him... Wonder what makes a little pup like her want to hang around with him. 

After a moment, the child looks up at him with a bashful look on her face, almost apologetic in a way. Her hand slightly raised to her face, tapping her finger against it. Oh.

Suddenly, it all makes sense now. 

The outlaw cleared his throat; right.

She ran into an empty page, rubbing her round nose with fingers deep in thought, before her eyes peeked into the pen in his hand, gaze that the Outlaw followed with utmost attention. He didn't know what to think, it ain't like... Ah, those damn children. 

'Wanna, uh... draw? Scribble a little?' His speech was slow, giving her the time to observe the movements of his lips. The pen was raised, its tip drawing circles in the air, while he pointed at the journal in the child's hand. Trying his best to make an attempt at finding a different way to speak and help her understand his intentions, past the verbal communication, he saw the child next to him lighting up all of sudden, a reaction that got him smilin'. Smilin' to a point where his cheeks hurt. She perked up, like little, baby deer, and it took all his strength to not melt as her tiny fingers took the extended pen out of his large hand.

This precious thing was overjoyed, that much he could see. It's like the pen transferred an energy that's been waitin' for its release since the day she was born. The child doodled, using the simplest shapes to portray different creations of nature. A big tree on the left, with a sizeable flower that reached half of its height; a smiling cat with three whiskers on each side of its muzzle, probably havin' in mind a feline that she may have seen at some point in her life; equally just as big, and a little house. The Outlaw, normally, wouldn't have it within him to just let someone scribble all over his belonging, but god damn it. It's a child. Ain't like they got much paper lyin' around for free use. If that means seein' a the little duckling happy, so be it...

The man saw a red squirrel running right in front of them, stoppin' every once in a while to check the surroundings. And of course, he didn't have the heart to stop the little artist in the heat of her passion, but he couldn't let the opportunity for her to see the curious animal just pass! He nudged the girl gently, just on her arm, and pointed at the rodent that tried to jump over the tree. It took her a moment, her eyes being squinted in focus, before relaxing when she saw it. 

'Look'at it go, almost as tiny as you!' The man laughed gently, lookin' down at her once more, seein' that she's already traced the lines which resemble the squirrel; the girl havin' made sure to emphasize long ears and fluffy tail. The animal on the paper was almost as huge as the cat next to it. He's a bad man, and yet, he couldn't resist the smile that's been plastered on his face for a good few minutes now. She may not have been as expressive as other children he'd see, but when the baby giggled, when her lips curled up, or even when she did as much as she scrunched her nose in focus; warmth washed over his cold, cold and, once again, cold heart. It's like the girl melted it, and stole it, the precious little thing she was, paternal instincts resurfacing within him once more.

And then; just like that, he saw a sketch, and his eyes widened slightly. On a page he sees a drawing of a person... A man with a beard, a hat on his head, with a scarf wrapped aroung his neck, and the widest damn smile on his face, like the one of a fool's. The Outlaw wiped his mustache, taking into his hands the journal she had extended to him, with that expectant look on her face. She waited for that nod of approval, needing it more than anything at this moment; an approval that he, this rugged man, granted. Of course, he knew who that fella on the page was; it were him, or, how the toddler saw him as. A big fella with a hat, who smiles at her widely. He wasn't an outlaw to her, or a goddamn cowboy. To the girl, he was just a nice man who let her draw in his journal, who kept her safe from dangers of cruel world, which took her childhood. Possibly the first person she had approached on her own ever since she found herself in the gang. 

And that is something he couldn't wrap his head around. How is it possible, that he; a person so terrible as he is, was the one that this kid somehow wasn't threatened by?

And god, why was he smiling so much? He cannot tell. 

What he can tell, however, he hasn't done that for so long. 

And that her own smile, he wants to protect. 

[appalachiancowboy99]

After Dark

Arthur Morgan x CurvyFem!Reader Established relationship, high honor, grumpy Arthur in desperate need of release, 18+, MDNI (Minors DO NOT ENTER)

Arthur comes back to camp later than usual, with nothing but a bad disposition and a desperate need to release his pent-up frustrations.

Warnings: longer read, sexual content (oral, unprotected p in v, rough sex), mentions of violence, mentions of anger, and dabbles in sensual fluff.

Gif by: @sunwingsunset

A/N: Thank you so much to @photo1030 for not only being my sounding board in the never-ending chaos that is my writing process but also for being such a wonderful friend through it all. So grateful for you, don't know what I'd do without ya, C! <3 Thank you so much to @rivetingrosie4 for being an inspiration for my little works and being so supportive of my creative endeavors, not to mention the kind generosity of your friendship! Forever grateful for to have met you! @tortureddpoett I'm so excited to explore this budding friendship with you! Thank you so much for showing so much excitement for my work, IT MAKES ME EXCITED (EEP!). It means an absolute ton to me <3 @mr-inkslinger your friendship has been an absolute delight to explore! Thank you for posting that toe-curling smut that always has me giggling and kicking my feet! So happy to have met ya! And thank each and every single one of you for liking my first drabble and expressing interest in this next one. I'm so sorry it's taken me forever to publish this post, but hopefully, the next ones won't take me as long. I'll forever be grateful for your patience and kindness <3 But now, enough of my babbling, y'all enjoy yourselves with this one- I know I did ;)

Fuck. From the second he opened his eyes, he knew that the day was going to be fucking awful; his neck had a crick in it, his head was pounding from what little sleep he’s received over the last few nights, and now he had to trudge back out into the goddamn muggy heat to work. One disaster after another had piled up; everything that could have gone wrong, went so terribly awry that he wound up farther away from camp than he originally intended and managed to add a solid fifteen-dollar bounty to the mounting collection resting atop his head. Dutch had sent him out on a wild goose chase, following a lead from Micah that, of course, ended up being a complete waste of time. And that meant he was coming back to camp empty-handed, which almost certainly meant he'd be on the receiving end of another one of Dutch's lectures on the endless responsibilities placed upon his shoulders. He dreaded it, wanted to avoid spiraling down another conversation that would end in Dutch questioning his faith in the ever-evolving plan he’s found himself working on these days.

As if he needed any of that horseshit tonight. All he wanted was a moment of peace and quiet, a chance to catch his breath after the disaster of a day he'd just had, but instead, he was headed back to camp with nothing but bruises, a bloody lip, and a bad disposition to show for his efforts. Trees and other bits of scenery whipped by in a blur as Arthur spurred his horse onward, his surroundings melting together into a muddy mess of shapes cast by moonlight. He passed through New Hanover, his furious pace leading him down the familiar roads of Lemoyne, reaching the clearing outside of camp. Lenny and John are the first to spot Arthur approaching the thicket of trees disguising Clemens Point's main entrance. “Hey, who goes there?” Lenny’s voice echoes through the forest, bouncing off the thicket until it reaches Arthur’s ears.

“‘S me.” Arthur grunts out through gritted teeth, clearly not in the mood for any chit-chat. Even underneath the shadow of leaves and limbs, the scowl etched upon his face is easily distinguishable, a clear sign for anyone with any common sense to give him a wide berth for the rest of the night. Lenny and John, both, had a pretty good idea of what might happen when Arthur steps foot into camp and they don't want any part of it. As a result, they give each other a little knowing glance and stay in the treeline, preferring to avoid the impending shitstorm and let Dutch or Hosea deal with it instead. He strides past them in a fit of frustration, dismounting his mare with a jerky movement before she's even come to a complete stop. Kieran spots him and hesitantly approaches. That poor fool. "H-Hey, Mr. Morgan. Would ya like me to unsaddle the 'ol gal here?" Kieran's question was nothing more than an innocent query, but his expression turned the young man into a nervous wreck. If looks could kill, Arthur’s certainly could; his steely eyes are set ablaze with annoyance and irritation as he casts a hateful glance in Kieran's direction. Even Kieran knew better than to talk to Arthur when he was in this state, knowing that it would only lead to suffering at the hands of his unbridled wrath. Kieran’s eyes immediately darted to his feet, desperate to avoid Arthur’s icy gaze as his fingers trembled with the frayed ends of rope in his hands. Quickly as to not start any trouble for himself, Kieran took hold of the mare's reigns and led her away to the field of horses, putting as much distance between himself and Arthur as he could. A slight pang of guilt runs through him when he sees the way that Kieran high-tailed it out of his line of sight. He doesn't want to be harsh to the boy, he's been a useful asset to the gang, but his temper is just too far gone for him to muster up an apology. As fast as the angering thoughts snapping through his mind, Arthur turns on his heels and storms into camp in search of Dutch. His boots furiously hit the grass and reddened Lemoyne dirt as he passes by a few of the wandering eyes from those still awake at this late hour. Charles casts him a wary glance, and so does Sadie, but neither of them cares to look long enough to entertain what's about to happen. He passes by his own wagon and heads straight to Dutch's tent. Dutch is nowhere to be seen, yet the lamp light inside casts its soft golden glow upon the closed canvas flaps of the tent, indicating that he might be inside. Not wasting any more time than he has to, Arthur approaches the tent, not bothering to stop and think until it's too late. His hand raises, readying to peel back the canvas flap, when all of a sudden he hears the sweet amorous sounds of lovemaking echo through the night air.  Molly’s sweet voice gasps out between each movement of their squeaking cot, calling out for Dutch as the unmistakable sound of skin slapping skin penetrates through the thin canvas walls, revealing exactly what’s occupying Dutch’s time tonight.

“Oh, Dutch. Don’t stop,” she encourages through strained, unabashed moans of pleasure. Dutch’s deep, husky voice murmurs back something unintelligible, but the increased squeaking of their bed and the filthy little noises coming from Molly are a clear indicator that Arthur should be stepping away to give them some privacy. Embarrassment washes over him, causing a faint rosy flush to heat his face and bloom across his cheeks. For once, he's grateful for the distraction from his current frustration. On most nights, he'd find comfort in your presence, seeking you out to vent his grievances as a distraction from the ever-present aggravation that seemingly follows him around these days. But tonight, he just wants to retreat to his tent, away from everything and everyone, to try to calm down before he says or does something he regrets.

He strides past the dying campfires and tables that are askew from daily camp activities, and his mind tirelessly races from thought to thought, stealing his attention away from his surroundings. If Arthur had even bothered to look, he would have spotted your sleeping form laid out upon his bed the moment he stepped inside. You had been waiting for him all evening. After working yourself to the bone doing laundry, dinner prep, and other camp chores for Ms. Grimshaw all day long, you wandered your way over to Arthur’s tent in search of a quiet place to sit. Part of you wished to find him seated right there on his cot, wanting to simply have a conversation with the man who has stolen your heart, but to your disappointment, he wasn’t anywhere to be found. So, you waited for him.. And waited until the very idea of waiting became too tiresome and you unknowingly fell asleep.

Sneaking away from the gang for private talks with him has been one of your favorite things to do since you joined the gang so long ago. Y'all have always had a knack for avoiding the company of others. But somehow in the midst of squirreling yourselves away, both of you have come to find that you'd prefer being alone together. Eventually, this led to many nights where Arthur would seek you out just to speak his mind, allowing you to see the world through his eyes for a short while. You have not only embraced Arthur's thoughts, but in doing so, you have captured his heart all the same. If it weren't for you, he's certain he'd have lost his damn sanity long ago.

Arthur takes that dusty old gambler's hat off his head and runs his fingers through his hair, taking a moment to calm himself down. His eyes glance over the things laid out upon his bedside table before catching a glimpse of your figure awash by the pale moonlight in his periphery. Your hair is sprawled out over the small blanket you've rolled up into a makeshift pillow; curls flowing like a roaring waterfall, laying a mess, and finally free from the bun that was atop your head earlier in the day. His eyes rake over your voluptuous figure, noting every dip and curve from your plump waist and hips to the ample swell of your breast hidden by a layer of clothing. The moment his mind registers that your presence isn't a dream, his eyes soften and his mind no longer races with anger. You are his peace, the only thing in this world that he cherishes above all else. 

Sighing softly, he finally discards his hat from his hand and places it onto his nightstand before working off his worn leather jacket and satchel, resting them on the back of the chair nearest his shaving mirror. And while he's on his feet, he takes the time to carefully roll down the canvas walls of his tent, unraveling them with the quiet precision of a mouse, and securing them in a few simple knots to hide you two away from the world.

It's quite dark by the time he wanders over to the cot, dark enough not to notice himself brush against your legs as he takes a seat on the edge of the old creaking bed. The familiar, welcomed-warmth of his body pressing against your shins rouses you from your restful slumber. Your eyes flutter open to find his figure perched next to you, shrouded in a darkness so thick that you are sure you're still dreaming. His head and broad shoulders are slumped over as he begins working off his dusty boots, caked with remnants of mud and manure.

"Hmm... Arthur?" Your voice floats through the quiet darkness, laden with fatigue and clearly carrying the lassitude of someone who could fall back asleep at the drop of a hat.

He quickly glances over his shoulder at the sound of your voice, his eyes already adjusted enough to the shadows to see your tired face staring back at him with confusion. He silently curses himself for waking you. "Shhh, Darlin'. Don't wake up on my account. I'll be done in just a minute," Arthur lightly grunts out the last word as he struggles to remove his right boot.

Even in your own weary state, the exhaustion in his tone isn't lost on you. Thinking it best to rouse yourself as quickly as possible to free up his bed for him, you sit yourself up and will yourself awake with a slight stretch. "'S okay. You need rest more 'n me."

"No. You was restin' 'fore I got here. Go 'head and lay back down." He isn't having any of your courtesy tonight. He's worn out, far too tired to argue with you about whether or not it's appropriate for you to share his bed for the night.

The rest of the gang, aside from John, Abigail, Susan, and Hosea know nothing about the true nature of y'all's relationship. Although, the rest of the girls have picked up on the changes you've brought about in Arthur since your arrival so long ago now. Seeing him get all soft and doey-eyed at you over these last few weeks has most definitely tipped them off about what y'all really get up to when you're out running errands together. But they catch wind of you sleeping in his tent tonight, it will all but confirm their suspicions. And yet, you just can't bring yourself to move from the comfort of Arthur's cot with him sitting so close to you.

"What time is it?" The question falls from your lips, carried on the soft currents of a gentle breeze pushing through the tent flaps. Fine sinewy muscles flex beneath his shirt as he leans over to work off his other boot and you are powerless to admire the shape of his body beneath.

A muffled grunt escapes his mouth the moment he finally frees his aching feet from the confines of his boots, "Late," he simply replies.

You take a deep, cleansing breath, allowing the tranquility of the night to settle around you like a soft, comforting blanket. Outside these walls, no sounds of chatter or lively activity can be heard, aside from the gentle hum of crickets by the riverbank and the faint sounds of a squeaking cot stopping abruptly. The gang is unusually quiet, the air filled with repose now that Arthur's returned safely to you. Only a few stragglers tend to the campfires, their focus solely on themselves, interested in anything beyond the flickering flames; not even the sounds of Dutch and Molly or Arthur's irritation can disrupt the peaceful bubble encompassing Clemen's Point tonight.

The plush heel of your palm rubs over one of your eyes as you flit them toward the tent entrance, watching how the wind slightly ruffles the bottom of the canvas. It's only then that you realize that Arthur has tied down the walls for privacy on your account. Normally, he wouldn't bother setting up the walls before collapsing on the cot for a few restless hours of sleep. But tonight, he's gone out of his way to ensure your comfort. Your heart couldn't feel any more full of love for this man by your side, a man who puts your well-being above all else, even above his own. Never did you think that love would have been like this for you: sitting in the comfortable silence of privacy for lovers when that luxury is rarely afforded for women like you. But despite your gratitude for his thoughtfulness, a pang of guilt gnaws at you knowing he made the extra effort while you took up residence in his bed, a cot that's barely big enough for the two of you given your plump frame.

In an attempt to make up for taking up so much space, you roll yourself forward along the thin mattress and quickly slide past him, crawling toward the foot of his bed where his trunk of clothing is kept. You've decided to give him his space for the night, even though in your heart, you'd prefer to stay. Before your foot even slides off the trunk to touch the soft grass below, you're reminded of John stopping by Arthur's tent earlier in the day.

Through a half yawn, you speak, not giving Arthur the chance to catch-on to where you're headed, "'Fore I forget: John stopped by while you was out."

Arthur slightly leans back as his fingertips mindlessly fumble with the buckle of his gun belt. The slight clicking of the metal rings out as he works to remove the clunky accessory from his body. His strong back brushes against you as he moves with the comfortable ease he's come to enjoy over these last few weeks of secretly being yours.

"What about it?" His concentration is split half between himself and the presence of your body behind him.

Your words don't register in his mind until he's completely removed the belt from his body. He figures it was that stagecoach job he reluctantly handed off to John; it had completely slipped from his mind until this very moment, much like yourself. The cool metal filigree atop his trunk moves under your feet as you rest them just shy of slipping off its edge, causing the hazy memory to play out behind your tired eyes.

-

You were just settling yourself in, resting your weary body on the edge of Arthur's cot, just as you're doing now. Little beads of sweat accumulated on your forehead from working out in the intensity of Lemoyne's miserably humid heat. Grimshaw had you and the rest of the women working on camp chores, which you hadn't complained of, since it usually occupies the time until Arthur's usual return. However, the day was far too hot for you to not complain about the harsh conditions she had y'all in. Eventually, evening came and you were finally finished with the laundry, allowing you a moment's rest to seek out the comfort of Arthur's cot.

In the midst of wiping your brow down with one of his neckerchiefs you'd secretly swiped, the hard thump of boots hitting grass caught your attention. You'd anticipated Arthur's arrival, but something didn't feel quite right. The boots didn't move with Arthur's measured stride; they scuffed the grass and dirt, signaling a different, but familiar presence. The moment you look up, you spot John standing at the entrance of the tent, not at all surprised to see you sitting upon his cot as if it were your own.

For a brief moment, his brow furrowed in a mix of frustration and exhaustion. It was as if he was caught between the two warring emotions, each pulling him equally. Clearly, he expected Arthur to be back already.

"He not back yet?" The gruffness of his voice has you believe the former, rather than the latter.

"Not yet," you say in kind, hoping to ease some of his burden. "Was you needin' him for somethin'?"

John did and the news certainly wasn't going to sit well with Arthur at all.

-

When the thoughts finally coalesce within your fatigued mind, you internally grimace knowing that Arthur isn't going to like the reality of the situation. Gentleness has always been your strong suit, especially when it came to dealing with half of the bull-headed men in camp. So, you lace your words with the softest tone you can manage, "Said it weren't as much as y'all had planned on: about fifty-dollars tied up in what little him 'n Charles found."

And you were right. The news doesn't sit well with him at all. All of the compiled frustration of working a nothing-lead and now knowing that the other job didn't pay well either boils beneath the surface of his skin until he explodes like a whistling kettle. Preventing himself from lashing out at you, Arthur kicks his boot toward the other side of the tent, knocking it into the chair. The loud thunk of its sole hitting wood claps harshly and causes you to flinch, startling you fully awake from the suddenness of noise and his movement.

"Every goddamn day it's some shit," he spits through his teeth.

Although you know he'd never intentionally hurt you, the anger in his voice sends a cold shiver down your spine and your stomach flips and churns in knots. Usually, you'd blame yourself, reprimanding your big mouth for even opening up to mention something that you knew wouldn't bode well for his weary mind. But you're in too much of a shock to even consider self-deprecation as an option. Your wide eyes search through the darkness, watching the shadowed outline of the man you love heave in a deep breath to steal his nerves. His shoulders slump forward and head hangs low as he rests his elbows on his knees, utterly defeated from the compiled anger and exhaustion coursing through him.

It's at this moment that you remember the job Dutch sent him on earlier in the day; Arthur didn't want to go and had very little sleep after working on yet another lead that barely got them anywhere. If it had been left up to you, you would've made Arthur stay right here in this bed to get some rest like he deserves. You would've taken care of him so tenderly, but, as usual, what Dutch wanted would have far outweighed any of your concerns. You've learned to recognize the pattern of these situations by now, and given Arthur's aggression, assuming that today's job didn't go quite as planned would be hitting the nail right on its head. You test the waters with a quiet question, "Lead didn't pan out today, did it?"

The soft shake of Arthur's head, coupled with the shadow of his palm running over his face tells you all that you need to know: no, it hadn't gotten him any farther than where he had started. Another useless effort. Your heart aches watching him struggle with so much weight on his shoulders. No matter how strong Arthur might be, he's just a man struggling to carry his own burdens, let alone everyone else's. Ever since settling down here, Dutch has placed so much responsibility on him that you've wanted to scold the man for even mentioning Arthur's name in passing. He's worked himself thin and thread-bare, barely having any time for himself outside of the time he spends on the road traveling from place to place at Dutch's convenience.

Empathy for the man that you've fallen in love with so long ago breaks your heart, aching in desperation to relieve some of his pain. Instead of walking away, keeping to yourself, and silently shouldering any of the blame for setting him off, you choose to stay the night. Despite knowing full well that the girls will have their gossip circulating by morning, Arthur's needs are far more important than any snickering comment or playful jest that'll inevitably come your way.

You scoot back where you were and lean toward him with less apprehension than what your words had suggested. Resting your delicate palm between the broad expanse of his shoulders, you feel him tense at the soft slip of your tender touch over his shirt. The tips of your fingers glide over his shoulder and silently take purchase on the taut muscle there. With a gentle, yet firm pull, you coax Arthur back toward you.

"C'mere. Lean back 'n talk to me..." Your dulcet tone pierces through his irritation, encouraging him to rest in your awaiting arms.

Arthur slowly reclines back, allowing himself to unwind in your embrace as his much larger body sits snugly against your plump bosom. Relaxing doesn't come easy for him. Hell, you'd be surprised if it had, given the high tensions between him and Micah these days or the tiresome back and forth between the two rival families in Rhodes. He has every right to be terse and tensed up like a snake ready to strike, but you aim to comfort him even if that means you risk getting bit. Silence hangs in the air between you, aside from the gentle breaths and the occasional strained grunt catching in the back of his throat while he struggles to get comfortable against you, due to the remaining stress insisting on clinging to his tired body. Your loving hands splay out over the firm expanse of his chest, feeling the steady and reassuring thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms as you try your best to soothe your brooding lover. It's as if your mere presence cracks away at the anger lingering in the stiff tendons and taut plains of muscle along his torso until he relents and finally lets go. His body relaxes back into you as if he were sinking into the plush, luxurious drapery and bedding found in the finest hotels of Saint Denis; much like the bedding of the room he'd paid for the very same night he had whisked you away to bed you properly for your very first time.

He's silent for a long while, almost reluctant to burden you with his troubles. So, you take it up on yourself to start the conversation by spilling what had happened to you earlier in the day, thinking it might earn a laugh or two, "Well, I'm sure my day weren't as rough as your'n," you hum. "But I did fall off the dock, landing my hind-end right in that water."

The image would usually cause a humorous snort to escape him, but the irritation still bristling at his nerves prevents him from reacting with anything else other than a huff of annoyance, "I told ya to watch your footin' out there. Ain't no use to nobody if you get yourself drowned."

Fortunately, as he chides you his words begin to lack much of the anger from moments ago. But you sigh softly anyways, relenting to his incessant need to protect you from life's dangers, despite being able to handle your own, "I know, I know..."

With a few buttons of that old blue work shirt popped open by your deft fingers, the smallest opening there is just big enough to slip your hand inside and rest it up on the soft but wiry hairs at the very center of his chest. "You shoulda seen me, though," you murmur as you lean down toward his ear, lowering your tone as you press your cheek to the side of his head. "Was drenched head to toe, clothes clingin' to me like feathers on a wet chicken."

He sulks, trying to stay mad at anything and everything he can to give into the bristling anger at the back of his mind, but he can't. No, not when he can clearly envision you all soaked and surprised from falling into that cold lake. A faint smile curls up the corners of his lips and then, just as he almost chuckles, he clears his throat, holding his laugh back. However, you catch on far too quickly for him to play it off so easily.

You gasp softly in mock surprise as if offended by the idea of him laughing at you, "Arthur Morgan. Are you laughin' at me?"

That's when his temperament breaks, giving way to the huff of laughter rumbling through his chest. "I ain't laughin' atchu, per say..." he counters. "Just maybe at the thought of what ya mighta looked like comin' up outta that water: madder 'n hell, hair clingin' to your head," and as if to illustrate his point, Arthur reaches his hand backward and turns his head to try and catch a glimpse of you in the thick shadows, barely making your face distinguishable to his eyes, as he brushes his fingertips over the bits of hair clinging to your forehead from the muggy heat.

Though you narrow your eyes in mock annoyance, you lean into his calloused fingertips, accepting the gentleness of his touch while a giggle of your own creeps up into your throat, "Oh? Is 'at so? Maybe next time I find you out on that dock, I'll think 'bout pushin' ya in 'n lettin' you see how it feels."

He huffs out a skeptical breath and raises an eyebrow at the very thought of you even trying something like that with him. It'd be a futile effort and one that you truly wouldn't consider without the clear consequence of him pulling you right down with him.

And just as soon as the laughter came, it was gone again, replaced instead with a comfortable silence that settles between you two once more, giving him some space to think about what's happened to himself today. Long before the days of your arrival, Arthur would keep to himself and dwell on the ever-present burdens troubling his mind, brooding for hours. But with you, he feels a safety that men like him are rarely afforded.

"Well, if ya think fallin' in Flat Iron's bad..." he continues, "Try goin' halfway 'cross the state lookin' for a man that don't exist. Then when ya find someplace to get a drink, ya end up catchin' a few stray hits from some drunken bastard."

A soft gasp enters your lungs at the revelation. Another fight? You lean over his shoulder, reaching to take his scarred chin into your hand. It's hard to see through the inky-black darkness of the night, but even in the haziness, your eyes can make out the bruising along his jaw, the harsh scrapes of knuckles cutting over his cheek, and the jagged cut on his upper lip. It isn't a rare sight to have him come back battered and bruised by some job from time to time, but that still doesn't quell the uneasiness in your heart at him going through such pain and aggravation.

Your eyebrows furrow in sympathy for your rugged cowboy, eyes softening to match as you breathe out, "Oh, Arthur."

He's quick to dismiss your concern with a soft sigh, pulling away from you to lean forward and distract himself from your sympathetic gaze, "Ah, don'tchu go 'n worry yourself over me none, Darlin'."

Being fussed over or thought of so tenderly still isn't something he's used to; he's shown you that time and time again. But it never deters you from trying to make things better, to make things easier on him however you can. Whatever turmoil Arthur's got rolling about in his mind is far from the usual and it takes patience to understand; a patience that he finds only you can give.

You reach your hand out toward him. The delicate ends of your fingertips reach up to brush over the nape of his sun-kissed neck, grazing over the ends of his slightly overgrown hair, silently making a note to yourself that you'll trim it for him tomorrow. His body shuffles slightly backward, leaning in to accept your touch while he slips off his suspenders: pulling them down his shoulders heavy with burden, before taking his time to unbutton that tattered old work shirt you're so used to seeing around his muscular frame.

"'Sides..." he starts. "I did have some good that came from today."

"What's 'at?" you hum softly with a lilt of dryness. "Hittin' that feller back?"

He can't help the chuckle rising in his throat at the dry sarcasm touching your words. Arthur shakes his head softly, "Nah, Darlin', " the last word strains from his lips as he rises to his feet with a groan, leaving the safe comfort of your touch as he stands to undo his pants.

He glances over his shoulder, peering down at you through the darkness with a smirk curling up at the right corner of his mouth. Watching as your sweet eyes follow his every movement, Arthur turns to face you, allowing you to gaze at him as he slowly pushes the brass button through the eyelet at the top of his riding pants. The fabric opens effortlessly, revealing the red cloth of his union suit underneath. The sight of him before you, suspenders hanging loosely on either side of his long legs and his pants aching to be peeled from his strong form has your lips parted in awe at the man standing mere inches away from you.

He continues from just seconds before, "Seein' you laid out on my bed, purdy as a dream."

After stepping out of his pants now crumpled around his ankles, Arthur lowers one knee upon the cot nearest your thighs. He leans over you, using his thick fingers to tilt your chin upward, meeting his crystalline eyes. "Was one helluva sight I could get used to seein'."

The low timbre of his voice sends a shockwave of desire straight through your heart and into the aching pit of your stomach. Your lips draw up into a shy smile, and a faint dusting of pink envelops your cheeks just like the moment you'd first professed your feelings for him under that canopy of trees he led you through so blindly. Although it hasn't been long since that fateful night, the closeness of your relationship has escalated so quickly that your head and heart dizzy at the mere mention of his name.

Arthur's calloused thumb brushes over the supple swell of your bottom lip, enticing you to part them just for him. You comply, of course, unable to resist how a ghost of his touch makes you so pliant beneath him. And when he leans down to meet your lips with his own, your heart swells with tender affection. Those warm, slightly chapped, but pleasantly plush lips are heady as they connect with a passion that stokes the burning coals of desire in the very base of your core.

"Been waitin' to use that one for a while, hmm?" You hum contently while blindly guiding your hands toward the flare of muscle encasing his ribs. God, how you could worship this man and never tire of feeling how warm, how strong he is beneath your palms.

"Depends. It workin'?" He murmurs, smirking cockily against your lips.

Your mind begins to spin as the calloused pad of his thumb dips from your chin and swipes over your jawline. His fingers splay out over the side of your neck, fingertips gripping you with tender passion to hold you in place. He could easily break you, bend you with his finger and thumb as if you were nothing more than a twig beneath his rough and weathered hands. Never have you felt so small and fragile, always knowing in your heart that you took up much more room than other women. But, when you're with Arthur, he makes you feel as delicate as the petals on a beautiful flower, something so precious and worth loving; it's so much more than you'd ever experienced in your whole life. He touches you so tenderly as if you were made from nothing more than ash, a veritable pile of matter waiting to slip through his fingers at any moment.

You want to hum your praises to your lover, to let him know exactly how much you've wanted this, how much you've missed him, how well he's kissing you, touching you... But you can't. There are no words. He's stolen them from you, drawing all the air out of your lungs with his lips, leaving you gasping for the air coated in his divine masculine scent: sweet tobacco, wood ash, and mossy earth. He encompasses you, wrapping one arm around your waist as he pulls you close to his body, all the while shuffling himself forward to join you on the small cot. Your back presses against the hard wooden frame of the wagon making up the other half of his tent. He presses against you, holding you close to his strong body as he slides his right hand from your jaw, trailing it down over the soft skin of your neck, and down to your chest, where he heatedly palms your breast hidden just beneath your blouse. To have him touch you like this, like a man frenzied and dying for a taste of intimacy, has your head spinning and your heart on the verge of exploding if it hadn't already; for all you know, you could've died the moment his lips crashed into yours, and all that's left is a heaven you'd only dreamt of.

A low growl of appreciation rumbles through his chest for the plumpness of your body. Most men do not know the fine pleasures that extra curves on a woman can bring. But Arthur sure does. And oh how he worships your full figure, despite your opinions about yourself. His large, calloused palm shifts his attention to your other breast, kneading you tenderly while his lips work from your mouth, and instead, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses over your jawline and supple neck.

His name is a breathless sigh across your trembling lips as you allow your hands to explore his body in return. Touching over the large expanse of his torso and gliding your fingertips over the worn fabric of his union suit, you desperately search for the button that would bare him wholly to you. In the time it takes you to undo one of his buttons, his skilled fingers undo two of yours. Button after button unthreads upon both of your bodies, though his hands are much quicker at ridding you of your layers, leaving them strewn about on the ground until he's stripped you down and laid you beneath him in nothing more than your chemise and bloomers to conceal your decency. Arthur then crawls over you, his movements deliberate and enticingly slow as he cages you in with his hands pressed into the thin mattress on either side of your head. Shadows danced and shifted restlessly, playing tricks on your perception as you try to focus on what little of Arthur you could see through the haziness, making the absence of light feel alive. To feel him above you like this has your stomach in knots, tightening with a firey passion that's ready to snap at any given moment. Hearts are pounding, thrumming wildly against your ribcages like birds desperate to escape the confines of your chests. You hear it, hear how his breath shutters with each wild thump of his heart, and you feel it in his breath as it puffs over your cheek. He's losing himself to you and you him, slipping so quickly that rational thinking is no longer of use. You need him and he needs you.

The flaps of his union suit hang loosely from his body, allowing your hands to reach in and press flat over his heated skin. He shivers slightly at the contact, his muscles tensing and flexing beneath the tender meeting of your palms placed upon his scarred, goose-pimpled flesh. Your fingertips ghost over a scar on the right side of his ribcage, causing your face to crinkle with sorrow for what hardship your lover, this great outlaw, has had to endure in his lifetime. The damaged tissue is the result of a nasty fight he had as a young man: when someone stabbed him with the broken end of a beer bottle; they had aimed to kill him, but he had survived. The spot still aches with the memory of Hosea digging out the shards of broken glass from the angry, bloodied wound. But somehow, the way your delicate touch brushes over that old scar with such love and care causes the outlaw's skin to tingle, and his cock to ache with the pride of knowing that you love him so.

He takes his time with you here, laid out beneath him like a perfect little thing he's captured and kept safe by hiding you away in the privacy of his tent. After the day he's had, he wants to savor every bit of loveliness he's blessed with in your presence, so he can't rush this with you, not now. Arthur takes his time admiring you, letting his eyes rake over what he's able to see, and feeling what he cannot. Leaning down close enough to your face to capture that seductive glint in your glittering, lust-blown eyes, Arthur searches for any change within them as he maneuvers his right hand away from the mattress to trail along your sensitive flesh. The rough pads of his fingers ghost over your thigh, caressing the plump deposit of flesh along your middle, snaking up over your collarbones, and over your neck in search of your delicate face before sealing your mouth with his own in a kiss so tender you whimper from the initial contact.

Shivers of anticipation roll through him as your body responds to his touch: back arching off the bed, hands pulling on the nape of his neck to hold him down and assure that his lips won't leave yours, and the way your bloomer-clad hips roll upward in search of some much-needed friction. God how he could spend hours with you like this, letting his hands roam over your body to make you shiver and plead for any ounce of affection that he can give you. Your needy state is only exacerbated by the slight tremble in your thighs as he snakes his hands down over the pillowy flesh, seeking out the waistband of your bloomers. Ridding you of the cloth separating your pussy from his line of sight is an easy feat: the clad, slightly damp undergarment peels away from your plump hips with ease at the help of his precision; the Lemoyne heat causes the clothing to stick to your slightly dampened skin, but dammit if the temperature pales in comparison to how heated Arthur makes you feel. He tosses them down onto the ground, and places his hands upon your knees, spreading them apart as he sits above you to admire the feeling of your plump body beneath him.

His hand is unhurried and exacting, gently brushing his calloused knuckles down over your inner thigh, then lightly petting them over your soaked need covered by a soft thatch of hair. He can't see you fully, but that does nothing to stop his mind from envisioning how your cunt glistens with slick, all for him. The moment he presses his fingertips to your seam, parting you with the practiced precision of a lover, he lets a low, ragged breath escape his nose in appreciation for how wet you are. You shiver and instinctively try to close your knees from the pleasant surprise of his touch, and fuck does it feel good to have him brush over your folds like that.

"Always so ready, ain'tchya?" He murmurs, a teasing lilt to his voice as he takes his time in savoring the feeling of your slick upon his fingertips.

Your hips involuntarily twitch, bucking upward into his hand, seeking out his fingertips to make him swirl them over your aching little clit. You want him to touch you right where you need him, feel him right on that little spot upon that nub of nerves that makes your mind swirl and your body careen into a blissful orgasm. But he doesn't give that to you, not yet. He wants to work you over slowly, savoring every little sound he can draw out of those pretty lips. You're far too shy to answer him directly, instead favoring to cover your face with your forearms as he takes pleasure in taunting you like this. But the moment his fingertips threaten to part your folds, you let out a delicate little noise, someplace between a whine and a prayer to let him know that you're in no mood to endure his teasing tonight, "Arthur... Please."

Oh, how he loves to hear the sound of you begging; he's already half-hard at the idea of you wanting his touch, let alone hearing how desperate you are for it. He answers your prayer with a long, smooth stroke of his thumb parting your puffy, wet folds. You keen at how just a simple touch causes your stomach to flutter and your slit to clench around nothing at all. Your thighs, thick with strength, covered by a layer of squishy softness, part for him, relaxing lazily as he guides his thumb over each of your labia.

It was nearly impossible to get you to lay like this for him a few weeks ago; you'd been concerned about the unsightly appearance of your inner thighs: scarred over with dimples and imperfections, as well as the slight discoloration of having them rub together after so many years of being a larger woman. Most women that you've seen naked, don't have the same ailments upon their bodies as you have on yours. Just the other day when bathing with some of the girls in the lake, you'd noticed that even on Karen's body, a woman closer to your size, still didn't have the scars or discoloration across her skin in the same way that you have. And that night that Arthur had you laid out for him for the very first time, he'd noticed that apprehension in you, taking it as having second thoughts. But once you had explained how you felt about your own body, he hadn't even given the idea a single thought; his own body is mauled up, covered in old and ugly scars, and carrying more than three colors from all his time spent out in the sun. So, he couldn't have cared less about some scars, a little extra hair, weight, or even the discoloration over your thighs. What he did care about, however, was making sure that you felt loved in spite of it all. And now, it feels no different. To have you spread your legs for him like this, without a single worry holding you back, is a goddamn treat.

Fuck how good it feels to have the soft press of his thumb tease over your cunt, tracing the delicate path between your weeping entrance, to your swelling bud with a pressure so teasing and light that you squirm to feel more. Your plush lips tuck between your teeth to hold back any sounds that give away what you two are doing in here after dark, but it's useless; the lewd sounds of his thumb circling over your clit echo throughout the tent: a dead giveaway to anyone that dare walk by. Holding your breath like this isn't easy, not when the pounding of your heart echoes in your ears and your chest feels as if it's being seared from the inside out. A ragged gasp finally inhales through your nostrils, desperately trying to fulfill your body's need for air when you can no longer restrain your breaths.

He huffs out a low chuckle in amusement at the state he has you in: clearly desperate and in need to have your clit rubbed just the way you like it.

"Hmm.. Hear that?" He rasps out before going silent, letting you hear the sounds of your own slick being spread over your soaked cunt. He only continues when he finally reaches your clit, circling over the throbbing little nerve-ending to make you sigh out in pleasure for him. "So goddamn wet. All for me."

In a blur of movements, Arthur's chapped lips and teeth skim over your knee, slowly working their way down over your inner thighs. He nips at you, earning a few little squeaks and giggles until he kisses over your plump mound. His thumbs take hold of either side of your cunt, spreading you open to let the night air hit your wet skin. It's pleasant like this, to feel yourself spread out beneath him like a meal ready to be devoured and dammit if he ain't starved for a taste. Being eaten out has quickly become one of your favorite acts of intimacy in recent weeks; his tongue is so skilled at finding spots on you, making you come so deliciously, that most days it's all you've been able to think about. Hell, it's all you're thinking about now as his head sinks down to your core and his hot breath fans out over your aching need. His tongue slips out of that perfect mouth and flattens out over your seam, lapping at you once to earn him that little sigh of pleasure escaping your throat.

Your hands immediately seek out his head, combing through his slightly sweat-dampened hair as he swirls the blunt tip of his tongue over your clit.

"A-Agh, Arthur.. N-Not so fast," you whine out in protest, yet your hips bucking up into his mouth says otherwise. But he relents, nonetheless, giving you a moment of reprieve before he delves back in at the same pace.

He's aiming to make you cum quick and hard: slithering his tongue over your clit with the precision of knowing exactly what side and spot makes you writhe beneath him. Just left and then a little upward beneath that little hood of skin and he has you singing for him. Explicitves roll off your tongue one after another in between sweet little sounds that praise him for what effort he's putting in just for you. To hear you, feel you crumble beneath him like this is better than any robbery or score he gets out on the road. But just before he lets you come, he pulls his head back slightly and puffs cool air over your clit, making you whine.

"Shh.. Shh.. 'M gonna let ya cum, Darlin'. Don'tchu worry 'bout that none. 'M gonna take real good care of ya," he hums lowly as his lips and bristly scruff brush over your quivering inner thighs.

His promise isn't far off from fulfillment, not when he sinks his tongue into your heat and presses his opened mouth over the entirety of your cunt. He sucks hard, feeling your walls constrict around the wriggling muscle of his tongue as he laps inside your spongey center. Your thighs tremble with need as he fucks you with his mouth and slurps up your slick, drinking in as much of you as he can and relishing the tangy sweetness of your delectable taste. You throw your head back against the rolled-up blanket you had been using as a pillow earlier in the night, all while he eats you out like a man who's desperate to consume you.

But the aching throb of his cock, constricted by the thin fabric of his union suit, is far too angry for him to ignore. He's got to have you, now.

As he shuffles back up to his knees, leaving your cunt longing to cum on his tongue, you flutter your eyes open and snap your head up to try and catch a glimpse of what he's doing. Clearly, you ain't pleased with him teasing you like this, but when you feel his fervent movements, you realize that he's trying to work off his union suit. He wastes no time it peeling it away from his torso, but the moment he starts to tug it down his thighs, allowing his weeping cock to spring free, he nearly topples over and just about slams head-first into your body. Thankfully, he catches himself in the knick of time, grunting out a few curses as he grows impatient with his incapability to slide that damn fabric off his legs.

Amid his struggle to bare himself, you can't hide the giggle creeping up your throat as he curses under his breath, frustrated with how the fabric insists on clinging to his muscular legs. You help him slide the old red union suit off his body by digging your heels against the back of his thighs and pushing it down the long length of his legs until it reaches his ankles. The undergarment hangs loosely off his feet, causing him to kick it haphazardly off the side of the bed, letting it fall onto his trunk to skirt down on the grass below.

The instant his turgid length brushes over your inner thigh it twitches with the anticipation of feeling your tight, wet walls clamped around him, milking every drop of spend nestled away in his balls; spend that he so desperately wishes he could drain right inside of you. For now, however, just a single brush of your fingertips against him is enough. He has to hold his breath as he guides your delicate palm over his velvety shaft to stroke the needy ache away; if he isn't careful, he'd cum just like this. He hisses, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth as your fingers wrap around him and your thumb seeks out the weeping slit of his blunt tip. Arthur is, by no means, a small man: his legs are long, torso strong and wide, feet and hands are like bear paws, and his cock.. God, his cock is big. You could use both of your hands to stroke him and still, there'd be enough room for his tip to be entirely untouched. But you make sure as you stroke him with one hand, you pay extra attention to his tip, smearing his drooling precum over as much of him as you can, even down to the dark and wiry curls along his base and balls.

He's trying so hard to hold himself back, but with each tender pass of your thumb over that sweet spot along the underside of his tip, the last remnants of his patience crack away. You feel him crumbling like this, crumbling into a frenzied mess of low-hummed breaths and grunts through gritted teeth, and you fucking love it. Before you can even think about the desire roaring in the cavernous pit of your stomach, aching to be quelled, he smashes his lips into yours so hard that you're sure one of you is bleeding. The pain of his busted lip splitting back open is an angry reminder of the frustration still lingering at the back of his mind; he's as tensed up, pent-up, as a taut rope ready to snap.

With a quick movement, he swats your hand away, preventing you from jacking him into a fast climax. Then, in one swift motion, he grabs hold of your thighs and forcefully yanks you toward him, making the round swell of your plump ass plant firmly against the hard front of his strong body. Your thighs spread out, squishing over and conforming to the contour of his hips, the intimate contact leaving you both ragged and breathless. Your heart drums a frantic rhythm in your ears, drowning out all other thoughts and sensations that belong to you alone. It's as if your mind has descended into a tangled web of strangled noises and glorious sensations that only Arthur seems able to untangle or soothe. The faint outline of his body nestled between your thighs is a constant reminder that nothing beyond this moment, beyond him hidden away with you inside of this tent, matters.

The hard length of his turgid pride parts your folds, gliding over the slick thatch of curls usually concealing your cunt from his eyes, but with his sight hindered, he can explore every single nook, roll, and crevice without you shying away. His weight bares down on you as he holds your legs into the crook of his arms, nearly bending you in half as he drags his cock over your seam. It feels so good like this, even though you can hardly breathe with the thickness of your thighs pressing against your already plump stomach, but when the tip of his cock knocks into your clit, it makes the strained pain well worth it. The back of your hand flies over your mouth as he continues on like this, pleasuring himself and you with each agonizingly slow thrust. Hearing your ragged, strangled half-breaths, he releases your thighs, leaving them to splay out lazily on either side of his hips as he leans down to steal a tender kiss.

Upon breaking his lips away from yours, the low hum of his voice finds its way through the haziness of your lust-broken mind as he murmurs against the shell of your ear, "Gonna take ya just like this..."

Chapped lips skim over your jawline and trail to your lips, where he gives you another tender kiss filled with gentle affection: polar opposite to the rough sex-driven outlaw you've gotten a taste of tonight, but aligning perfectly with the man you fell in love with all those years ago. Scraped knuckles skim against your slick heat as he slips his hand in between you both and presses flat over the thick, dark curls at the base of his throbbing length. His fingers spread wide over his pubic bone, holding his cock between his middle and ring finger, stiffening himself outward to seek out your clenched entrance. With a slight pullback of his hips, he guides himself to your slit, catching right on the taut muscle before pressing forward and splitting you open.

A soft cry hums in the back of your throat and he shushes you so tenderly, sliding his hands over your knees and down your shins to soothe the ache he knows you're feeling. You're so fucking tight, hardly different from the first night he took you and bedded you properly back at the Saint's Hotel. It nearly shatters him when your walls flutter around him, squeezing and pulling him in inch by inch as if you were carved out just for him to sink into. He stills only for a short moment, letting you feel him nestled up against your cervix before he slides himself out and enters you again with a sharp snap of his hips. Lingering anger and frustration from the shit day he's had still pulsates at the back of his mind, desperate to be released as the tension in his body rises.

The tight walls of your cunt clench onto him for dear life as jolts of pleasure and pain rack through your body.

Behind the shield of your palm, you cry out, "A-Agh, Arthur!"

You're trying your best to be quiet, to still your ragged breaths and hide your whimpers, but he's making it incredibly difficult. Each slow drag of his cock coming out of you with a satisfying pop, only to pierce you with a hard roll of his hips, sends you reeling. You're seeing stars, shaking from the pleasurable burn of the passionate fire he's stirring within you. Strong hands grip your hips, keeping you still as his thrusts guide you into a steady rhythm that makes the old wooden frame creak and groan with every subtle and sharp movement that your bodies make. Being discreet has left his mind entirely, no longer concerned with what sounds are coming out of his tent as he fucks you good and proper. No, he couldn't care less when the sounds of your slick pussy squelches as he presses himself flush against you and groans against the pulse point of your neck.

"Don't want ya hidin' them purdy sounds, Darlin'. Let 'em out for me," he grunts out between slow but hard thrusts.

Usually, intimacy like this is savored in the shaking breaths and whispered little sounds only audible to your ears, but tonight... Tonight Arthur is something else entirely. Primal. A damn, dirty outlaw. You love this new view of him, but you can't allow yourself to let the others hear. What if someone were walking by? Or Hosea or Dutch hear you two going at it? You wouldn't be able to look at them for a week! But he doesn't give you much choice in the matter: snaking his hand down between your bodies, his muscular forearm presses against your plush belly while his thumb immediately finds your clit.

"O-Oh, God," you whine as the pad of his thumb circles over you, followed by his name dripping off your tongue like the sweetest honey. "At's it... Such a good girl takin' me so deep. Mmm.. Gonna cum 'round me ain'tchu? Gonna give me a real good one, baby?"

God damn him if his mouth ain't filthy. The way he croons out those little praises and words of encouragement has your climax building faster than you ever could have anticipated. And the swirling of his thumb? It has you shaking, whining, pleading, practically begging for your release as he talks you through it, "C'mon, Darlin'... I feel ya squeezin' me real tight," he praises, "'At's it. Focus on me."

With one more swipe of his thumb over your sensitive clit and his cock hitting that sweet spot right against your cervix, you're tensing, digging your heels into the thin mattress, and cumming around him so hard that you see white. It takes everything in you not to scream, but the strangled sound coming out of you is loud enough to warrant some head-turning if anyone were awake. The moment your walls flutter and start milking him, he falls forward and drops down onto his elbows to cage you in. His thrusts are relentless as he takes his anger out on you in this way, using every movement of his body to release the bristling anger clutching onto his mind like a damn vice grip. No matter how fervent and frenzied, he's still careful not to hurt you, always thinking about how good he's making you feel while chasing his own release.

Arthur isn't a man of many words, but when you're gripped around him like this, clutching him with your arms, legs, and your fluttering pussy, he is downright mouthy. "Oh, such a good girl for listenin' to me. Shh.. Shh. I gotchu, baby. I gotchu."

His mouth hovers over yours, claiming your lips as he kisses you hard and possessively. Moans spill out of you, traveling through the expanse of his throat until it hums within his chest and he echoes one back. To talk like this with him, in a language only two lovers could understand, is far more intimate and pleasurable than anyone could ever know. Arthur is yours and you are his, no ownership or proprietary claim, but just the pleasant knowledge that both of you choose to love each other is enough.

With a few more rolls of his hips, he's nearing his own orgasm: length twitching and engorging as his balls tighten. In desperation, he quickly climbs off of you and pulls his cock out from your core. His right hand tightens into a fist around himself, and although you can't see it, you hear the lewd, effortless slide of his hand vigorously pumping over his tip like his life depends on cumming for you.

Finally, his orgasm hits him, working its way out of his tightened balls and spurting over your plump mound and belly. If he could see his spend on you like this, it'd be enough to make him cum all over again. But both of you are far too exhausted to even consider that so soon. You're still shaking, panting heavily as he lowers himself down onto you, not caring that his sticky spend is now covering the front of his body as well, as your sweaty bodies come down from such an enormous height.

His touch traces a slow, deliberate path down your leg until his fingertips reach the softness of your hip, where he gives your flesh a gentle but firm grasp. Reveling in the smoothness of your skin and the feel of your curvy form beneath his palm, he lets out a slow exhale through his nose. The heat of his breath spills over your neck and shoulder, doubled by the heavy breaths leaving his lips as he lazily peppers your clammy skin with kisses.

After a long stretch of quiet spent nestled into his hair, breathing in the comforting remnants of campfire intermingled with his musky scent, your breathing finally begins to steady. Slowly, your senses return to you one by one, like pieces of a puzzle falling back into place. Shock and disbelief jolt through your entire being as it finally hits you how easily he manipulated your body with his own strength and skill as a lover. You'd heard of men being rough with women, but never did you think it could be this pleasurable.

Your voice finally cuts through the relative silence, carrying a deep sense of satisfaction and astonishment with it, "Wh-here in the hell did that come from?"

An amused chuckle rumbles inside his chest, slightly huffing out of his nose as he slightly pushes himself off of you to gauge your reaction, "Reckon I were a little pent up. Why? You like it?"

To say you liked it was an understatement, but you'd like anything as long as Arthur were right there with you to experience it just the same. While his right hand slides up over the plump contours of your body, appreciatively grabbing at the plushness of your stomach and breasts, he lovingly brushes a few stray strands of hair off your forehead stuck there by the sweat covering your body. You hum softly in agreement to his question, deciding that you did enjoy this different side of him you hadn't expected, despite his rough exterior.

"Mhmm.. 'S always good with you," the loving words you murmur cling to his heart and earn you a pleasant kiss that tastes like the remnants of his busted lip.

As his lips trail back down over your jawline, his beard delightfully scratches over your sensitive skin, causing you to hum in appreciation for him loving you like a man who worships the very ground you walk upon. Your own body follows his lead, fingertips glide down the entire length of his back, tracing the contour of muscle that hint at the immense strength lurking beneath. You can't help but marvel at his shape, this man you love so dearly, and how his body was molded for love and carved from such a hard life. While your fingertips glide across his muscled frame, you can feel the subtle shift of his body as he adjusts himself on top of you, notricebly more relaxed than before: a clear testamanet to the calming eddect your touch has on him.

Curiosity peaked, you murmur, "You relaxed now?" as your fingertips idly trace the two little dimples that grace the base of his spine, just above the firm and muscular curve of his ass.

An amused smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, obviously enjoying the path your fingertips are carving out over his back. He'd never admit it, but he loves it when you grab him unabashedly, palming his ass like he so often does to you. The warmth of his cock brushing over your leg, hardening much faster than he expected for a man his age, tells you all you need to know.

He agrees with you, humming softly against your chest as he inches himself down to where his mouth hovers over the plump swell of your breasts, "Thinkin' that we just might need a little more time for relaxin', don'tchu?"

A/N: Big thanks for the divider from @saradika-graphics and the beautiful gif from @sunwingsunset, please go send them some love for their work! <3

Other creators that expressed interest and drew inspiration from: @subpopizzy , @cassietrn , @coltermorning , @redwritr, @zae-heeyyy, @twola , @amorgansgal

Please do go check all the blogs I tagged! You surely won't be disappointed!

As always, sending my love - M. <3

[zae-heeyyy]

Peregrine

Summary: Arthur misses your birthday. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female!reader Word count: 2,124 Tags: angst, smut, high honor Arthur, oral, pnv, fingering Warnings: 18+ MDNI

an: A request fulfilment for my dear Kenny @emerald-ranch. I kinda added in the birthday thing, I hope that was alright! It became clear to me as I was writing this that I 1000% have a thing for Arthur on his knees...XD anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Peregrine: having a tendency to wander

The length of Arthur’s absences varied like the frequency of rumbles during a storm. Dark clouds hung heavy over every departure, and your tears threatened to drop like rain down a window.

“I’ll be back soon,” he always promised while kissing the top of your head and squeezing you tight. Some trips were short cracks of thunder, ending just as fast as they began; others would roll on for days, the heavy rain flooding the rushing river that was your anxiety. 

But in time, he’d arrive with blood, dirt, and sweat staining his shirt and the scar on his chin covered by his overgrown beard. Outstretched arms would warm you like the afternoon sun. You’d breathe him in, sighing contentedly despite scents of gunpowder and musk clinging to him.

This time was different.

The sun fell below the horizon for the fourth time since he’d departed. Glass bottles clinked as camp buzzed with the lively energy of celebration—a celebration for your birthday. You tried everything to enjoy yourself, forcing air through your vocal cords to mimic a laugh, stretching your lips and showing your teeth to fake a smile, all while trying not to panic.

All the possibilities of his absence spun in your brain in a demonic sacrificial waltz. Was he still alive? Did he get arrested? Was he captured by Pinkertons and tortured while the rest of you partied the night away? Or worse, was he out there, perfectly content with being away knowing you were desperately waiting? To keep yourself sane, you rationalized. He was out finding food and making money. He had mouths to feed and people to take care of. Survival was more important than a birthday.

Whether they were too drunk to notice or respectfully giving you space, nobody protested when you slipped away to Arthur’s tent for the night. Tears spilled down your face and onto his pillow as the last hours of your birthday ticked by.

The stench of dread infiltrated your dreams and ruminated even in your waking hours. Nothing you did could free you from the pain of missing him. At high noon, heavy footsteps prompted you to look up from the growing line of yarn in your lap. You’d memorized the sound of Arthur’s walk like your favorite song, yet the man standing before you felt like an imposter. He wore a familiar cattleman revolver on his hip and long silky locs of hair rested over broad shoulders like always–though more tame this time. And despite their vibrant colors, the wildflowers in his hands dulled in comparison to the bright white, freshly pressed shirt he wore.

And your heart plummeted like a stone in a lake; while you were crying yourself to sleep on your birthday, he saw to himself instead of you. Privy to your dismay, the cowboy’s features lowered into a frown. 

“Darlin,” he started, quiet and hesitant. “I–I ain’t got an excuse.”

You huffed, losing your stitch count and refusing to meet his eyes. “The king has returned.”

Leaves and twigs cracked under his uncomfortable shuffle as he faltered, “thought we could go for a ride, to–”

And you didn’t let him finish. “M’busy, Arthur.” 

Silence hung in the air while he thought of a response. “M’sorry.” He said, then continued when you didn’t acknowledge him. “I’m sorry, and that should’ve been the first thing outta my mouth.”

“Yeah, it should’ve,” you agreed grudgingly. The threads of intertwined yarn were jumbled and lopsided now, a tangled reflection of this whole week. You threw the needles and yarn down into the grass beside you and finally brought yourself to face him. He wanted to smile finally seeing you, but instead, something like a sigh of relief rolled out with his words.

“Time just…got away from me,” he admitted. “I’m a self-serving idiot bastard, and I’m just…sorry. Just lemme make it up to ya’.” 

You thought for a moment, then glanced over your shoulder at Grimshaw, trying to find an out.

” But I got chores,” you told him.   

“Don’tchu’ worry ’bout that.” He extended his free hand out to you, and dammit, yours was in it faster than you could deny yourself.  The outlaw lifted you up from your seat with one arm and locked yours and his together as he drew you away from camp. And you had to give credit where credit was due because he pulled out all the stops: a ride in a stolen stagecoach, wine, dinner, and a room. He spoiled you in the only ways he knew how, but still, you couldn’t rid yourself of the uninvited guest, unadulterated hurt, that squatted in your bones.

“How was the party?” He’d asked.

“Fine.” You replied, pushing food around on your plate.

“Charles told me the girls managed to get you a cake.”

“They did.”

And the conversation trailed off like it had so often tonight. Every time you glanced at him, the hair, and especially the shirt, hate-filled magma churned within, and you couldn’t hold it any longer, your words spewing out like lava. 

“S’a fancy shirt.” 

His chin touched his chest as he fiddled with the top button. He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off for the second time tonight.

“Glad you had time to stop and pamper yourself. Nice shave, fancy hair, new shirt. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think it was your birthday.”

You didn’t mean to sound so crass, but now that the pot had boiled over, stopping the overflow felt damn near impossible. 

“I thought–”

“Thought?” A curt laugh halted his attempt to explain himself. “It’s hard to imagine you doing any of that.”

And he hung his head, an old dog with his tail between his legs–shameful that he’d disappointed the one he loved the most.

“And you paid for a bath too. Tell me, was it twenty-five cents or fifty?”

Your chair screeched against the floor, and you jerked back before he could answer, fleeing to anywhere but that table with him. The room key Arthur gave you in the stagecoach burned a hole in your pocket. You trotted up the stairs, searching for 2C and ignoring his calls from behind you. The least you deserved was a night behind closed doors, locked away from everything, even if it meant locking him out in the process.

Warm light burst out as you crossed into the room. Lit candles lined the fireplace mantle, their flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. A brand new day dress draped across the chair, a decorative hair comb resting atop it.

“Saw it in a window.” His words poured out smoothly like aged whisky, the sudden sound causing you to jump but prompting the skin on your arms to prick up all the same. And you were embracing each other without another thought—your fingers intertwining behind his neck, his hands settling on your hips.

“M’sorry, sweetheart. Ain’t ever gonna forgive m’self for lettin’ you down.” 

And you listened patiently while he devolved into his long-winded explanation.

“Was hoping to make a quick house call. Get in n’ out in one night, quick and easy. And I did, but some goddamn bounty hunters found my trail on the way back. Spent a day hiding out, and knew I wouldn’t make it back in time. Figured I oughta bring something nice back with me, you deserved that much.”

Your eyes drifted to the buttons of the shirt again, and he tilted your chin to look back up at him. 

“I saw the dress in a window, and let the man sell me the shirt too. Wanted to be at least a little presentable–somebody you’d wanna look at. Ain’t much I can do about my face, but...” 

Chuckling under his breath, he snaked a hand into yours and flicked your stuck-out lip. “Then I saw a sign outside the barber. Buy some pomade and get a free comb for your lady,” he touched his hair and rubbed the grease between his fingers.

“Then I got the key, laid everything out nice, stopped for some flowers, and thought I was prince charmin’ off to sweep you away to the ball–well, the room, more like.” He scratched his neck nervously and shook his head. “I thought you’d think a stagecoach fancy enough to make you forget how much I screwed up. No magic pumpkins ’round here though,” he shrugged. “Just an idiot, head-over-heels, hoping you can find it in you to forgive him.”

And frankly, you’d forgiven him the second you stepped foot into the room. Trying to fight your smile was a losing battle.

“You’re right about the idiot part.”

The gunslinger let out a breathy, almost laugh, before taking your hands in his and ushering you to the bed. Relief ran through you. After four long nights, you could finally submerge yourself in those eyes, blue and gold-like specks of sunlight reflecting on the sea.

“Please, forgive me, darlin’, I’m beggin’.”

Rough pads of his fingers traced over your knuckles as he waited patiently for your response. You crossed your legs and bounced your foot playfully. 

“I don’t know, I seen dogs beg for scraps better than that, Arthur Morgan.” 

And while your words were harsh, both of you were smiling now. He grunted, a sure sound of him swallowing his pride, then sunk to one knee, then another.

“Sweetheart,” the pet name came out thick and rich like honey, “M’sorry. Lemme fix it.”

His hands gripped both your knees, squeezing them lovingly, his touch so reassuringly familiar. He scooted in closer, guiding your legs apart and settling them on either side of his shoulders.

“I can do that thing ya’ like.” he offered, his chipped tooth smile brightening his face.

You ran one hand through his hair and brought him in by the collar with the other, pecking his lips once, then twice. On the third, you slowed down, lingering with your mouth against his, savoring the all too fleeting feeling of home. Soft giggles slipping between your lips interrupted the moment. Arthur stared up at you with nothing but devotion in his eyes, that laugh like the sweetest medicine, healing his diseased heart long riddled by self-loathing and loss. His right hand had started slow circles on your thigh, reminding you of his proposition.

“Thing I like? Don’t know what you mean, Mr. Morgan.” 

But you were shimmying yourself back onto the bed, and he was grabbing at your bloomers at the same time. He lifted his brow knowingly, and hummed a “mhm,” while you lifted your hips, helping him take the garment off and toss it to the floor.

You bunched up your skirts around your waist and looked down at your lover as he lay on his stomach between your legs. His beard grazed your inner thigh, sending thousands of butterflies fluttering in your stomach. Squeezing your eyes shut, you sighed in relief, releasing four nights of pent-up anxiety as his lips found your center.

And minutes later, just after letting you come down from the first one, he got to work on another climax, fingers pistoning steadily while he whispered all the things he loved about you in your ear. He was on his side next to you now, his own arousal nudging your thigh. The gruffness in his voice sent another surge of pleasure through you.

“You know, I never stop thinking ’bout you when I’m away.” You fluttered around his fingers, and your hips arched a little higher off the bed, “always thinkin’ ’bout you like this, all pretty and spread open for me.”

His thumb started fast circles on your clit, and you braced yourself for another tidal wave as his passionate speech continued.

“Next time y’miss me, get on that cot, spread these pretty thighs, think about what I’m doing t’ya, and use those fingers to getcherself off, can you do that for me?”

Your eyes rolled back as your mouth fell open, but only sounds of absolute ecstasy came out of you.

“Whatd’ya say, darlin’?”

And with that last question, the dam broke, your orgasm busting out around his fingers. Your sounds were the most divine opera, rising in pitch with every “Yes, Arthur,” as you melted. 

And he wasn’t done with you yet. Despite being miles away from camp, both of you made a home with each other. Home was the trail of raised skin that followed his touch and pairs of eyes meeting in love-filled exchanges. Home was the first few flutters of your pussy as he sheathed himself deep inside you. One night or even a week’s journey wouldn’t deter him, for he’d claw his way through the fiery depths of perdition to get back home to you.

[ak319]

(AN: Reader is 13-15, Arthur, 23-24)

Warnings: Not incest, strictly platonic, angst, fluff

You watched Arthur’s every move as he settled in, his face weary yet hardened, scrubbing off remnants of dirt and whatever else he’d encountered in the washing barrel. You lowered the clothes you were folding, feeling the slight twinge of nerves as you reached for his stew.

He liked it hot, which meant you had to reheat the pot. You realized you hadn’t eaten all day, but you brushed the thought aside. Taking the bowl in hand, you crossed over to him as he finally sat down, visibly exhausted.

“Here, Arthur." You said softly, extending the bowl to him.

He grunted in response, the closest thing to a “thank you” he would offer, and took it from you, his gaze giving you a quick once-over before returning to his meal. Routine checkup as you called it.

Trying to bridge the silence, you ventured, “So...how was it?”

Arthur barely looked up. “Was what?”

“The job…” You tried not to sound too eager, but the truth was, you were starved for any scrap of conversation, any glimpse into the part of his life that stayed cloaked in secrecy.

“Went well.” He replied curtly, still focused on his food.

A brief silence followed as you fiddled with a strand of hair, tucking it behind your ear. You felt a familiar ache bloom at the base of your skull and then another one at the abdomen, a dreadful sensation. Just then, it hit you, your period was due.

You froze, holding the empty tray as the realization dawned. Arthur looked up, stew mid-bite, and raised a brow at your sudden stillness, your gaze into space.

“What’s got you standin’ there like a ghost?” he muttered.

“Huh? Oh… nothing,” you managed to reply, trying to appear casual, hoping he wouldn’t notice the faint flush that had spread across your face.

“Need... anything?”

"Um..." You started pondering which perhaps went on for a minute.

Arthur’s gruff voice interrupted your thoughts. He reached into his pocket and, with a casual flick, tossed a few crumpled bills onto the tray. “Your pocket money. Now, go brew the coffee.”

The whole thing felt like a bad joke. Arthur tossed you a few bucks every so often, calling it "pocket money," like you could waltz into town and buy whatever you wanted. But he was always right there with you whenever you went to the market, keeping a close eye on everything. Or you had to give him the list.

“Uh? Um... th-thanks.”

Arthur's brow furrowed, his gaze sharpening. "What’s wrong with you today? Why are you actin’ weird?”

You forced a chuckle, shaking your head. “I’m fine, actually. You’re the one who is wei-, um looks tired. I’ll get on with the coffee.”

Before he could question you further, you hurried off, trying to shake the unease settling in your stomach. As you set the coffee pot on, you remembered the stew you’d set aside for yourself and turned toward the wagon, only to see Pearson ladling out the last bowl for himself.

A pang of frustration mixed with the ache of hunger, you’d been so careful, setting everything up, and now even that small comfort had slipped through your fingers.

First, the looming sense of dread that seemed to haunt your every step, and now this, a missed meal because Pearson snatched up the last bowl of stew without a second thought. Emotions churned, thick and heavy, clouding your mind as you went about your tasks in a haze.

You delivered Arthur’s damn coffee, scrubbed his dishes clean, and finished up the rest of your chores, all while running on nothing more than stale biscuits and the last dregs of (tea/coffee). Asking others for food? You didn’t want to be seen as Arthur’s sister, the one mooching off his work, asking for scraps, felt cheap, when he practically carried the camp on his shoulders. The thought made your stomach churn with resentment and embarrassment. Yeah, not something a Morgan does. Although in your opinion, you shouldn't be doing anything if he earns the most...but whatever. Asking from your brother? If he found out you skipped lunch. He’d be livid, calling you reckless or worse for not managing the basics, you couldn't handle a scolding at the moment.

Frustration gnawed at you. It wasn't just the hunger, it was the constant grind of chores, endless and thankless, all because you were one of the few women in the camp. Susan wielded her age like a shield, always finding ways to rest while you and Annabelle picked up the slack. But even Annabelle was too busy, neck-deep in whatever business kept her hands clean of the daily tasks. And so, it fell to you.

You flopped onto your cot, hiding your face in the pillow as the pains of hunger and period mixed with a deeper ache, one of loneliness, exhaustion, and memories you could almost taste. You remembered your mother’s gentle hand on your forehead when you were ill, the comforting smell of warm food she’d bring, and the luxury of rest she allowed you. It felt like a distant, lost dream now. Here, rest wasn’t an option, it was a rare privilege you couldn’t afford. Great, now your pillow is also wet with tears.

⋆⋆⋆

You were knee-deep in a mountain of laundry, your temper simmering with each aggressive scrub against the washboard. The clothes bore the brunt of your pent-up frustration, wrung and scrubbed with a vengeance. Suddenly, something light and obnoxious hit the basket, a boy’s underwear. You knew immediately who the culprit was.

"How. Dare. You?" you snapped, eyes narrowing.

John, already a few steps away, stopped and turned, a lazy smirk creeping across his face. "What? You’re the one washing."

"Yes, I am the one washing, you jerk." You grabbed the offending article and chucked it back at him, hitting him square in the face. His eyes widened, and he gasped, genuinely taken aback.

"But I am not washing that!" you said, pointing at the ragged underwear as if it were a symbol of all your grievances. "Those are for you to wash, understand?"

John held the underwear in his hands, clearly bewildered. "What? Why? Is it not… a cloth? And why would I wash it? I’ve got way more important things to do." His voice grated against your headache, every word echoing like a drumbeat in your skull.

"Important huh? Okay. Then let's solve this problem another way."

You could feel your patience unraveling, and, without thinking, you yanked a pair of scissors from your belt and snipped through the fabric with one swift motion.

"Hey! That was one of my two pairs! What the hell is wrong with you?!" he yelped, clutching the scraps as if they were made of gold.

"Then maybe you should think twice before tossing them my way! Now go and cry." you shot back, but the anger and heat were taking their toll. Your vision blurred slightly, the world beginning to spin.

John’s voice rose in protest, but it sounded muffled, distant. You took a step back, steadying yourself on the edge of the wash basin, blinking rapidly to try and clear your head. "Damn heat… and damn you, John…" you muttered, but the words seemed to tangle and drift as darkness crept in at the corners of your vision.

Your eyes fluttered open, and the first sight that met you was Ms. Grimshaw, her familiar face creased with concern as she fanned you gently with a worn-out piece of fabric.

"Ah! You are awake, quite the theatrics you put on out there..." Her voice was both exasperated and relieved. You let out a soft groan in response, turning onto your side, trying to escape the brightness of the day that felt too harsh against your feverish skin. Your throat felt like sandpaper, and the heavy weight of your head pressed down against the pillow.

"T-time...?" you managed to croak, the words feeling foreign in your mouth.

"It's four," she replied, a hint of annoyance in her tone.

Your eyes shot open wide in panic. "T-the clothes? I-"

Susan rolled her eyes, cutting you off. "I washed them, don't worry. But tomorrow you gotta do them, got it? And what’s with you tearing that boy’s underwear?"

"Huh...? What?" Confusion clouded your thoughts as you reached for your canteen, the bitter taste in your mouth only worsening your discomfort.

"Forget it," she huffed, shaking her head. "Oh, I hear him. I think Arthur's back."

Panic surged through you as you struggled to focus, the realization hitting hard. Arthur. You had to see him, make his coffee, bring him his food, and make sure he knew you were at the camp and doing your part in the camp. But every instinct in you rebelled against the idea, your muscles weak and senses dulled as if they’d given up the fight.

Your vision blurred, and you sank deeper into the cot, eyelids heavy, your body refusing to cooperate. You barely registered Susan’s faint, dismissive muttering as she left the tent, her words blending into a haze of disapproval. For now, making sure Arthur was taken care of was the least of your worries.

Meanwhile, Susan spotted Arthur sitting by his cot, his irritation palpable. Freshly cleaned up from his last job, he seemed expectant, perhaps wondering where you were with his usual meal or coffee. Sensing an opportunity to stir up trouble, she approached him, her tone casual but dripping with judgment.

"Mr. Morgan," she began with a sly look, "your sister did nothing today. Not a damn thing. And right now? She’s sleeping in, like she's royalty or something."

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Why would she do that?”

“Who knows?” Susan shrugged with exaggerated indifference. “She had some spat with John, then just sulked off and refused to lift a finger.”

The moment the words left her lips, Arthur was on his feet, his expression hardening. Without a word to Susan, he strode to your tent and pushed open the flap, not bothering to knock. His gaze swept over you, expecting to find you feigning sleep, or maybe just ignoring the day’s tasks.

"What the hell is you-"

But the sight of you, lying pale and motionless beneath the blanket, immediately stopped him in his tracks. A faint flush tinged your face, and your breathing was shallow. His agitation shifted to alarm in an instant.

Arthur knelt beside you, his hand reaching to press gently against your forehead, feeling the unmistakable heat of fever radiating through his palm. “Damn it,” he muttered, guilt and worry flooding his face. He’d been ready to scold you for shirking camp duties, and instead, here you were, worn down to the bone.

Your eyes fluttered open, barely focusing as you tried to mumble something. “Arthur... I meant... to get your food… just…”

His jaw tightened, frustration directed inward. “You’ve been pushin’ yourself too hard,” he said, his voice low but edged with anger, at himself, at Susan, at anyone who’d failed to notice what you were going through. “You’re coming with me to the clinic, no arguments.”

You nodded weakly, relief and exhaustion settling over you. Without another word, he slipped his arms beneath you, lifting you up with a gentleness that made your heart ache.

As he carried you to the stables, he did not forget to throw a bloodthirsty look at Susan making her gulp. It clearly stated.

'You are dead if something happens to her.'

The air in the clinic was thick with the smell of antiseptic and the soft rustle of the doctor’s coat as he examined you. Arthur sat beside you, his brow furrowed with concern, his hand clenched into a fist resting on his thigh. You lay on the cot, shivering despite the blanket wrapped around you, your pallor alarming him even more than before. The doctor’s voice was a distant murmur, but the words echoed in your ears.

“She’s suffering from dehydration fever. It’s left her weak, but with proper treatment, she should recover. Make sure she stays hydrated, and she’ll need rest, here's the prescription and you can go home if you want once the drip is finished..” The doctor turned to you one last time with a gentle smile. "Rest well, alright? Lots of it."

As soon as the door clicked shut behind the doctor, Arthur turned to you, his expression shifting from worry to something sharper, more intense. “What the hell were you thinking?!” he snapped, his voice low but edged with anger. “You could have told me you weren’t feeling well. Instead, you’ve been pushing yourself like this?”

You flinched at his tone, the weight of his words mixing with the guilt that already gnawed at you. “I--but you said...that I gotta...work...” you started, but the words caught in your throat, and instead of explanations, tears began to prick at your eyes.

"FUCK WHAT I SAID!- "He rubbed his forehead in frustration. "I also said to take care of yourself, I am not always around! And just--look at you..."

“I--I didn’t mean to,” you stammered, your voice trembling. “I thought I could manage...”

“Thought!?” he echoed, incredulous. “You can’t just think you can handle it all when you’re this sick! You’ve been working yourself to the bone! Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you ask for help?” His voice rose with each word, frustration spilling over as he paced the floor, refusing to meet your gaze.

"And what did you just tell the doctor, huh? That this wasn't the first time it happened?! Are you kidding me?! Are you tryin' to waste yourself?!"

The harshness of his tone cut through you, and you couldn’t help the tears that began to spill down your cheeks. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, your throat tightening. As you looked into his furious eyes, the dam broke. The tears spilt over, hot and unrelenting as you remembered all the times, you put him and others first, in fear.

In fear of being left with strangers while Arthur is away and thinking that they might say or do something to you if you don't do the work properly.

"Damn it,” he murmured, his voice softening. “I didn’t mean to-”

“I was...scared and I-I--miss her,” you sobbed, clutching the blanket tightly around you as if it could shield you from the pain. “I miss Mama. She would know what to do. She would take care of me…please take me to Mama...” Your voice cracked, the memories of her soothing presence and the comfort she always provided weighing heavily on your heart.

Arthur’s anger faltered as he watched you break down. hearing you call for Mama again and again was agonizing. He felt his heart twist painfully at your words, the memories of your mother hanging heavy in the air. “I know,” he said quietly, his voice losing its edge. He reached out, gently wiping the tears from your cheeks, his own frustration melting away in the face of your grief. “I miss her too. But you can’t go on like this. You need to take care of yourself for her, for both of us. And why the hell are you scared, you are my sis' and as long as I am alive, no one can touch a strand of yours,” He pulled you in a side hug carefully.

"And listen here, from now on, you only do my chores. Fuck the camp." You pulled away slightly, in shock.

"W-what?"

He nodded with a playful smile. "Damn right. You get better and you do my work only. Susan can surely handle the others, right?"

You blinked up at him, your surprise turning into disbelief. “Arthur, you can’t just tell me to ignore everything else... I can’t put that on Susan. She-”

He interrupted you with a firm squeeze of your hand, his eyes softening. “I can and I will. You need to rest, and if that means I have to play the tyrant for a bit, so be it. Besides, Susan can manage. She’s been slacking off more than you realize. And if someone has a problem with it then they can come to me. Anytime.”

A small laugh, almost devilish, bubbled up despite your exhaustion, the tension easing slightly. You snuggled back into the hug to calm your shivering.

“That's...that would be fun to watch."

He nodded and you decided to press your advantage. “Um…so tell her to do your chores too-”

"Don't get too ahead of yourself now."

I hate you.

“Get well soon, and you better take your meds and all when I ain’t around.” Arthur’s voice held a rough tenderness, though he masked it with a gruff tone. Beneath his impatience, you sensed a genuine worry, a hint of eagerness for you to recover, not that he’d admit it, of course. His true motive, or so he told himself, was purely practical.

Pearson’s stew lacked the warmth and care you added to every meal, and coffee was never quite right unless you made it.

He groaned inwardly, imagining another week of choking down meals without your touch. But the look he shot you as he spoke was more protective than he probably intended, softening just enough that you knew he was looking out for you.

“Did ye’ even hear me, missy?” he muttered, noticing your eyelids drooping, his words somewhere between annoyed and fond.

You jumped, startled out of the drowsiness that was starting to creep over you, and gave a hum of acknowledgement.

⋆⋆⋆

John rushed up to Arthur as he emerged from your tent, having just ensured you were well-fed and rested.

"What is it, you rascal?" Arthur asked, turning to face him with a mix of curiosity and annoyance.

“Um... I was looking forward to a compensation…” John trailed off, shuffling his feet awkwardly.

“For?” Arthur raised an eyebrow amused, the impatience creeping into his tone.

“(Y/N), tore... she... tore my underwear, which is not fair...I only asked her to wash it...I mean....”

A smirk crept across Arthur's face. “She did the right thing, I am proud of her.” He grabbed John by the back of his neck, pulling him close with a playful yet threatening grin.

"My sis ain't your maid, boy, got it? In fact, nobody's maid here. Wash your shit yourself.” The playful banter vanished, replaced by a weighty silence as Arthur's gaze hardened. He gave John a firm shove, sending him stumbling back and casually walking back to his own tent, chuckling at the boy's foolish request.

[istayniche]

Red Dead But It's...

Vampires: Kingdom of the Night

! FINAL CHAPTER !

Tags: ArthurxOFC, JohnxOFC, vampire!Arthur, fluff, happy endings

Chapter Summary: Life carries on.

MASTERPOST

Chapter 32

Words: 1,789

May 23rd, 1901

Been a while since I opened this old thing. Near eighteen months, I reckon. Couldn't bring myself to write after... well, after everything that happened with the gang. Too many ghosts in these pages, too many memories that felt like knives turning in old wounds. But Odette says a man ought to record the good times same as the bad, and I suppose she's right about that. She's right about most things.

Where do I even start?

Me and Odette got married two months back. March 15th, to be exact. Wasn't nothing fancy by most folks' standards, but it was perfect for us. The whole neighborhood turned out. Every soul who'd helped us in the fight against Dutch and his madness. Reverend Thomas officiated the ceremony in his church. Old Henry from the bakery made a cake that could've fed half of Saint Denis. At the reception, Mr. Terrence Jackson poured drinks so strong, Odette had to remind him it was a wedding, not a parlor house.

John and Cécile stood up with us. John as my best man, though he grumbled about wearing a proper suit the whole time. Cécile looked prettier than a spring morning in that yellow dress she'd sewn herself. John actually teared up—the fool. Course, he denies it to this day, claims it was just incense in his eyes. But I saw what I saw, and that boy was crying like a baby.

Odette wore a fine dress of white silk with tiny pearls sewn into the bodice. Caught the moonlight like captured stars. When she walked toward me, I swear I forgot how to breathe. Still the most beautiful woman I ever laid eyes on, more so now that she's mine and I'm hers, proper and legal.

We danced until near dawn, the whole neighborhood celebrating like we'd won some great victory. Which, I suppose, we had.

Odette says the work never stops, and she's right about that too. La Rose Noire's still thriving, but we've had to make some changes. Renovated the whole back section to accommodate the newborns. All the poor souls Dutch left behind when his madness finally caught up with him. Young folks who don't know what's happening to them, scared and hungry and lost. Just like I was, not so long ago.

It's hard work, teaching them control. Teaching them that they don't have to be monsters, that there's another way. Some days I look at their faces, pale and confused, and I see myself in that cellar.

But there's satisfaction in it too. Watching them learn to hunt proper, to feed without killing. Seeing the moment when they realize they ain't damned, just different. Last week, a girl named Marie, couldn't be more than nineteen, managed her first clean hunt. Took down a wild boar without losing herself to the hunger and was able to store the blood for herself. The pride on her face when she came back to the saloon, blood on her chin but her eyes clear and human... well, it reminded me why we do this work.

John and Cécile are doing real good. Better than good, if I'm being honest. That French girl's got more business sense in her little finger than John's got in his whole body. She's turned her father's old haberdashery into something special. A proper boutique selling both men's and women's clothing. Fancy stuff, the kind of garments that make Saint Denis society folk feel important.

Never thought I'd see the day John Marston gave a damn about fabrics, but there he is, learning the difference between silk and satin like his life depends on it. Cécile's got him wrapped around her finger, and he don't seem to mind one bit. There's purpose in his eyes now, something I ain't seen since before Abigail and Jack... well, since ever, really.

I keep waiting for that fool to ask her to marry him proper. They're living together above the shop, happy as two people can be, but John's still dragging his feet about making it official. Probably scared she'll say no, though anyone with eyes can see that girl's crazy about him. Maybe I'll have to knock some sense into him soon.

Course, it ain't all sunshine and roses. There's others out there. Newborns we couldn't reach in time, ones who learned all the wrong lessons from Dutch and the Count. They're scattered all across the South now.

Odette says we can only solve what's right in front of us. So that's exactly what I'll do.

Arthur paused in his writing, flexing his fingers around the pencil. The porch boards creaked beneath his chair. Their cabin sat on the outskirts of Saint Denis, far enough from the city's noise to hear the bayou's night songs but close enough to reach La Rose Noire when needed.

He turned to a fresh page and began sketching Odette in her wedding dress, the way she'd looked walking down that aisle, tiny purple flowers in her hair. The curve of her smile, the way her eyes had shone with tears of joy. Beautiful as the day he'd met her, though that seemed like a lifetime ago now.

The screen door creaked behind him, and Arthur looked up to see Odette stepping onto the porch. She carried a bottle in her hands, his evening meal, prepared just the way he liked it. Ox blood mixed with oregano, bourbon, and a dash of honey. 

"Still writing?"

"Just finishing up."

Arthur accepted the bottle gratefully, taking a long pull. The blood was warm, perfectly seasoned. "You spoil me, you know that?"

"Someone has to." She pecked his temple. "I got something else for you. Something special."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, then shook his head "I told you, didn't have to—"

"Oh, hush. You really think I was gonna let your birthday come and go without gettin' you anything?" Odette grinned.

"I ain't never gave a damn about my birthday."

"Course you'd say that. John and Cécile and I, we've been working on something special for you. Something we've been planning for weeks now." She stood, extending her hand. "Come on. Close your eyes."

"Odette—"

"Trust me."

Arthur set down his pencil and bottle, allowing her to pull him to his feet. Her hands were warm against his face as she covered his eyes.

"No peeking," she warned, guiding him down the porch steps.

Arthur let himself be led, his enhanced senses picking up the familiar scents of their property. Wildflowers and the rich earth of the bayou, the distant smoke from Saint Denis. Beneath his feet, he felt the transition from grass to stone. A freshly laid path he didn't remember being there before.

"How long you been planning this?" he asked.

"Long enough. Watch your step here."

They walked for what felt like several minutes, though Arthur's sense of direction told him they were heading toward the back of their property, near the tree line where the bayou began in earnest. He could hear the soft splash of water against cypress roots, the distant call of a night heron.

"Alright," Odette said finally, her hands still covering his eyes. "You ready?"

"Been ready."

She lifted her hands away.

Before him stood a gazebo, elegant and simple, covered in climbing roses and jasmine that filled the air with their perfume. The structure was built with sturdy lumber, with a bench inside that faced toward Saint Denis. From here, he could see the city's lights twinkling in the distance like fallen stars.

But it wasn't the gazebo that stole his breath.

To the left and right of the structure stood stone pillars, carved with meticulous care. Headstones, he realized. Real graves, proper graves, each one bearing a name carved in beautiful script.

Hosea Matthews - A Father to Us All

Lenny Summers - Too Young, Too Bright

Sean MacGuire - Loud in Life, Quiet in Death

Karen Jones - Fierce Heart, Gentle Soul

Abigail Roberts - Beloved Mother

Jack Marston - Innocent Lost

Molly O'Shea - She Loved Too Much

Susan Grimshaw - The Mother We Needed

Pearson - Fed Our Bodies and Souls

Uncle - Slumbered in Life, Peaceful in Death

Each grave was decorated with fresh flowers, the kind that grew natural in the bayou. Lilies and irises, morning glories and sweet peas. Simple and beautiful, just like the people they honored.

Arthur's vision blurred and he blinked, realizing he was crying. When was the last time he'd shed tears? Not since he buried them, when he'd first understood what he'd become.

"How did you..."

"John and Cécile helped with everything," Odette said softly. "The transporting was... difficult. But they're here now. All of them. Safe."

Arthur walked slowly among the graves, reading each name, each carefully chosen epitaph. His family. His real family, the one that had mattered more than blood or law. They were here, in this peaceful place, where he could visit them without fear of grave robbers or weather or time itself wearing away their memory.

"The gazebo," he managed to say.

"So you can sit with them. Talk to them. Remember the good times." Odette moved to stand beside him, her hand finding his. "I know you've been making that long ride out to the old burial site. Figured you might like having them closer."

Arthur turned to look at her, this woman who'd saved him in every way a person could be saved.

"Odette, I..." He swallowed hard, the words inadequate. "This is... I don't know how to thank you."

"You don't need to thank me. This is what family does."

Family. That's what they were now. Him and Odette, John and Cécile, all the lost souls they'd gathered at La Rose Noire. A different kind of family than the one he'd lost, but family all the same.

The sun was setting behind them, painting the bayou in an expanse of golds and pinks. Somewhere in the distance, a jazz band played at one of the river boats, the music drifting across the water. The air smelled of flowers and earth and the promise of rain.

Arthur pulled Odette close, burying his face in her hair. She smelled like home, safety, like all the good things he'd never thought he deserved.

"I love you," he whispered against her temple. "More than I got words for."

"I love you too." Her arms tightened around him. "Always."

They stood there as the light faded, surrounded by the graves of the past and the promise of tomorrow. In the distance, Saint Denis glittered like a jewel, full of life and possibility. And here, in this quiet corner of the world she'd carved out for him, Arthur Morgan finally understood what peace felt like.

[obsessedwrhys]

Ladies with gentlehands, I need help on choosing which fic to work on first so I will let you decide. I'm indecisive and can't fully concentrate so I need someone to pick for me. I'll start doing the fic with the most votes and the rest will come in order.

[dilf-luvr-4evr]

Always enamored by Evie’s range 🙂‍↕️!!! Always able to take me away from anything im doing and make me feel like im here!! 🤭 A cheeky, fluffy one this time and it’s as cute as it can be 🥰 got me feeling like a teen again with the girl talk! Sometimes entertainment in the gang is simple; Arthur Morgan getting new clothes and a trim 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

Enjoyin' the View / Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Summary: Arthur comes back from Valentine sporting a moustache, new shirt, and a trim. Oh, how delicious. Tags: 18+, MDNI! Mainly because it's horny, there isn't actual smut, it's all suggestive. A smidgen of dirty talk from Reader. Reader is a big flirt and she and Arthur get a little hot under the collar. Word count: 1,645. Author’s Note: This was a request from a sweet Anon! Sorry it's so late, I'm a very slow writer, I hope if you're still about that you read it and love it! <3 I'm also the worst flirt so I hope the back and forth works!! Ao3 Link. All photos above are sourced from Pinterest.

Your lashes give a gentle flutter, your body begging you to blink. You withstand one more moment of stinging eyes before the dwam which you had so smoothly sank into swirls violently with the fusillade of teasing comments from the girls perched around the table with you. “You seein’ what I’m seein’?” Karen’s cheeky lilt sounds out and she breaks your focus with a shove of her shoulder into yours. You cast a soft glare upon her, your voice cattish and a grin tugging your lips wide, “I was quite enjoyin’ what you were seein’ right before you interrupted me, ya dope.”

“Arthur’s been to the barber.” Mary-beth whispers with a quick glance in the man’s direction, catching a glimpse of the neatened back of his hair as he hauls his satchel from his mare. Her eyes widen slightly and she ducks her head back into the book resting in her lap.

“He’s been to more than the barber. He’s been t’the general store, too. Tha’s a new shirt.” Tilly states with a casual and unbothered once over of Arthur before going back to her turn at dominoes, “S’your turn–”

“Ain’t never seen him in checkers before,” you murmur distractedly over Tilly, watching unabashedly as Arthur stands by his horse talking to Javier, the checkered brown shirt somehow squaring out his broad shoulders further.

“Surprised you ain’t seen ‘im naked with the way y’all dote on eachother.” Karen quips before a soft whistle flows through her teeth as Arthur turns around and starts his usual lumber across camp to his tent, satchel in hand. Karen’s words flutter straight through and out of your head as your focus snags on Arthur’s face, on how you can see more of it than usual. Your eyes glide over the sharp line of his bare jaw, then the soft roundness of his chin, debossed with scars, and then the thick bristles of hazel adorning his upper lip. He gives a quiet chuckle, shaking his head at something Javier calls out as he walks and it only spurs on the warmth of attraction steadily buzzing up from your seat and through your stomach. Your voice leaves you sounding utterly abstracted, your words thoughtless and your mind brimming with the gentle purse of Arthur’s lips as he moves through camp, oblivious to the admiring gaze of you and the girls.

“Since when was Arthur Morgan a moustache type’a guy?”

“Since forever,” Karen presses a palm to your face and pushes, forcing you back out of her space which you had stupidly leaned into in an attempt to maintain your concupiscent vision, “you just ain’t seen him outside’a Colter ‘til now. The beard kept him warm.”

“Kept me mighty warm too lookin’ at ‘im,” you giggle. Karen and Mary-beth join in; a consonance of birdsong-esque tittering that draws a confused flash of Arthur’s attention as he reaches his tent. “Can one’y’all take the damn turn? I don’t care who.” Tilly grouses, thumping her fists gently into the wood and looking between you and Karen.

“Eh, Karen can take it,” you respond idly, pushing yourself up and adjusting your skirts, “I’m gonna go see ‘im.”

“More like give ‘im a seein’ to,” Karen simpers only to be smacked on the arm by Tilly and told firmly to hurry up with your relinquished turn. With a roll of your eyes, you turn away from the group, starting to walk. As you near Arthur’s tent, you slow to a stop, feeling the familiar bubbling excitement in your stomach at the thought of seeing him, of seeing this new look up close. You take a breath and smooth down your skirts yet again, purely to quell the blaze of nerves and attraction down to something more manageable. With the pads of your fingers, you dab at your face here and there, hoping to blot some of the oiliness that had coalesced from hours of scrubbing clothes by the river in the early Spring sun.

You hear mutterings from Arthur as you near his tent, watching him unpack his satchel, placing sundries about his table and shaving station. Taking a few steps under the tent, you clasp your hands behind your back, tilting your head as you call out, “Where’re you off to?” Arthur looks at you for a moment, his eyes narrowed though not unfriendly, before he continues putting things away. The shirt moves over his burly physique and your eyes eagerly chase the shifting fabric, dragging down his shoulders, back, and then around to his forearms where he has rolled the sleeves up. Thick, dark hair swirls over his sun-kissed skin, almost teasing your focus to follow it down to his large hands which find place on his hips. A lascivious thrum pulses through your body once you realise he has fully halted his actions. Your eyes flit upwards, finding his own as they ladder up your body and meet you. “Wha’chu mean?” He asks, a slight befuddlement in his tone.

“You look... Handsome.” More like downright delicious. A kittenish grin pulls at your lips which Arthur’s focus snags on. He blinks, his brow raising, before a choked chuckle breaks through him, “You sayin’ I can’t?” With a huff, you lean against the wagon, gazing up at him and that damn moustache. Seeing him up close feels worse; a wanton pull draws you toward him like a river flowing through to the sea. However, this desirous puddling only has your drawers to saturate as you take in how the thick hair covers part of Arthur’s upper lip. It nears provocative, how his lips part before his tongue languidly drags over his lower lip as he awaits your answer. “I’m sayin’ you look more handsome’n usual.”

“And why’s’at–?” He cuts himself off, squinting as he watches you tuck your hair behind your ear, “What’chu wantin’, woman? You’re preenin’ like a damn bird.” He folds his arms and your grin melts into a smirk. A hot weight drops straight to your seat, searing your innards with arousal as it plummets. You shrug, your voice light yet your eyes heavy,

“Ain’t wantin’ nothin’,” besides you, “jus’ enjoyin’ the view. The new shirt, the trim, the moustache.”

“Uh-huh, sure, okay,” Arthur purses his lips, giving a slow nod, his tone increasingly playful, “An’ how long do ya plan on ‘enjoyin’ the view’ for?”

“As long as I please, I s’pose.” You saunter closer, your hand coming up to softly cup his elbow before trailing up his bicep, causing him to raise an eyebrow, “‘Specially if that mouser on your lip hangs around.” Arthur’s chest slowly expands and his face morphs through from pleasant surprise to addled flickers of ardour. He wets his lips, shifting a little closer, his jaw working subtly before his voice comes out, low and curious,

“My moustache’s got’chya warmin’, has it?” You hum, walking your fingers up his shoulder and giving a teasing squeeze. He brings his opposite arm up, knocking the underbrim of his hat with his knuckles, pushing it up to look at you better. The hum he can hear vibrating in your palette slips through your purring words,

“So’s the man sportin’ it.” Your free hand joins your first, touching him sweetly, wrapping half around his forearm. You feel his soft, chunky veins swell under his skin and you wonder whether his blood is engorging him elsewhere.

“Y’know, you confuse me at times, Miss.” His hand leaves his hat and twitches past your waist before dropping to his side.Watching how his eyes unfocus the tiniest bit, you briefly ponder the likelihood of his thoughts muddling with the yen to return your little touches. The soft but deep breath you take in only homes you in on the tingling of your skin.

“Well, how about I unconfuse you, tonight? Can show ya jus’ how warm you’re makin’ me.” Arthur’s fingers curl ever so slightly, and when your teeth bare in an impish grin, he huffs out a laugh as he reaches the hand to your waist, tucking his fingers under the tie of your apron.

“Christ, you ain’t one to mince–”

“Are you two about done? You–” Grimshaw’s pointed tone dissipates the tension that had been thickening the air and you feel her poke your shoulder blade, “in your ridiculous lust and stupidity, have left the wind to pull the freshly washed clothes into the damn dirt. Get back to it!”

“Yes, Ma’am,” you glare back at Grimshaw only to see her already walking off, her head shaking as she mutters to herself about you “young women” and your “lack of discipline”. Your hand slips languidly down Arthur’s chest as you meet his eyes again, “Be seein’ you later then?” You feel him stiffen a little beneath your skin, his heart seemingly trying to bounce its way into your palm as he realises that his simple touch may have just sealed his fate. “What for?” He inquires in a quiet rasp which warbles when you lean in closer, your largening pupils having him feel like the most willing of prey.

“S’up to you,” you whisper coyly, “could be for dinner, or somethin’ after. Could last til’ morn.”

With that, you release him, and he very almost feels faint– as though his attention was so firmly on you that your withdrawal is just that, a withdrawal, leaving a gnawing craving behind. He watches you stroll away with a triumphant swish in your hips and that grin still on your face as you go. Karen gives your hip a nudge as you pass and you both giggle as she joins you to continue your chores.

Arthur takes his hat off and runs his fingers through his hair, feeling the Spring breeze cool the sweat-laden underarms of his shirt. He mutters to himself, a slight tension in his throat,

“Lust and stupidity. Sounds ‘bout right.”

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 you <3

[rimzaaa]

Happily Ever After

Oneshot!

Pairing: Frontman(inho) x Female reader(y/n)

Fandom: Squid Game (오징어 게임)

Summary: What if the final game never truly ended? What if love survived the arena?

Y/N thought she had lost everything. The man she loved—dead. Her world—shattered. But when the mask comes off, and the truth is revealed, she's forced to face her deepest heartbreak all over again. With a newborn in her arms and her past standing in front of her, will she walk away… or risk everything for a second chance?

This is a story of betrayal, grief, found family, and the kind of love that crawls out of hell just to hold you again.

Warning: Violence & death. Blood & trauma. Canon-typical content. Emotional breakdowns. Heavy angst. Redemption arc. Some soft comfort & fluff. Mentions of suicidal ideation (brief)

Author's Note: This is my first ever fanfiction for Squid Game, and it’s centered around my favorite character—the Frontman (aka Inho/Young-il). I wanted to give the show an ending that we all think the characters deserve. This story means a lot to me, so I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Feedback and reblogs mean the world 💌

Words Count: 4.2K+

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦

The air was thick — heavy with the scent of blood, sweat, and fear.

Only three players remained: Y/N, Gi-hun, and Player 222 — Jun-hee’s daughter, too young to understand the stakes of the game.

They stood on the broad, red-stained surface of the triangle-shaped platform, raised high above the arena floor. It was wide enough to move, to run — or to fight. The ground beneath them felt solid, but the danger lay in the unspoken rule: one of them had to fall.

Y/N clutched the child tightly against her chest, her breath quick, her heartbeat louder than the ticking clock. A few feet away, Gi-hun stood in silence, eyes locked on the next shape — the circle, waiting for the moment someone would make the first move.

Time was running out.

Only two players could jump forward.

High above the arena, behind the wall of dark glass, the Frontman stood in silence — his mask reflecting the soft glow of the lights. The VIPs lounged nearby, laughing, drinking, placing their bets. But he wasn't listening.

His heart was pounding.

There they were.

Y/N and Gi-hun.

Two names from a life he barely recognized anymore.

Two people he once knew... back when he was still young-il.

Originally, he had entered the games as a player with one mission — to keep an eye on Gi-hun. But the moment he saw you, everything changed.

He fell for you. Hard.

Quietly. Helplessly.

And without telling a soul, he made himself a promise:

He would protect you. No matter the cost.

But now, as he watched from the shadows of power, that promise echoed bitterly in his chest.

Because all he could think about…

was what happened last night.

⟣ FLASHBACK ⟢

The room was dimly lit. Player 100 and Player 333 were fast asleep after the luxurious dinner arranged for them as finalists. Gi-hun and Y/N, however, remained awake — watching over the baby girl Jun-hee had entrusted to them.

Suddenly, a pink guard entered the room and walked toward them.

“The Leader wants to see you both,” he said flatly.

Gi-hun and Y/N exchanged a glance before standing up and silently following the guard.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft beep.

And there he was — the Frontman, seated calmly on a couch in his all-black uniform, his expression hidden behind a dark mask.

Gi-hun and Y/N walked in slowly, stopping in front of him.

“Sit down. This will take some time”

He said in his cold, commanding voice.

They obeyed, taking seats across from him.

“I have an offer for both of you.”

Both Gi-hun and Y/N stared at him, confused.

An offer?

The Frontman reached into the pocket of his long coat and pulled out two daggers, placing them on the table between them.

“Go and kill the remaining two players,” he said evenly. “And I’ll make sure you both walk out of here. The next game won’t happen — I promise you that.”

“Why should we trust you? Why would you help us?”

Gi-hun asked sharply, trying to make sense of what was happening.

Y/N, meanwhile, was silent — her eyes locked on the man behind the mask. Something in her gut told her something was coming… something big.

The Frontman’s eyes flicked between the two of them beneath his mask.

He took a slow breath, then reached up — pulling back the hood of his uniform.

Then, without a word, he removed his mask.

And looked straight at them.

“…young-il?”

Y/N whispered, her voice trembling, her breath catching.

Her hands shook as she stared at the man she had once fallen in love with inside these deadly walls — the man who had whispered soft promises to her in the dark. The man she’d mourned. The man she thought was long dead.

He wasn’t.

He was alive.

Right in front of her.

Part of her wanted to throw herself into his arms, to cry into his shoulder and tell him how much she missed him.

The other part wanted to grab that dagger… and drive it into his throat.

She clenched her fists tightly in her lap, her heart unraveling.

“young-il… you…?”

Gi-hun looked stunned, disbelief washing over his face. The man he once trusted — the one who had fought by his side — was the Frontman?

The Front Man lowered his head.

“In-ho”

He corrected quietly, barely above a whisper. There was guilt in his voice. Shame in his eyes.

He turned to Y/N. She was gripping the hem of her t-shirt tightly, her eyes glassy with tears — but she refused to let them fall.

“Why?”

Her voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“Why did you do this to us?”

Before In-ho could answer, Gi-hun suddenly stood up, grabbing one of the daggers off the table, rage flaring in his eyes. He raised It as if to strike but stopped just short — trembling, breath uneven.

“Why did you kill Jung-bae?”

He asked through gritted teeth.

In-ho didn’t flinch.

“I’m sorry for what happened to him,” he said. “But killing me now won’t fix it. Someone else will just take my place. You both need to get out of here — with that baby.”

There was a flicker of desperation in his voice.

Despite everything — the lies, the betrayal, the pain — he was still trying to protect them.

“I swear I’ll explain everything. But please… just do what I’m telling you. Go back. End this. I’ll make sure you both survive.”

Gi-hun scoffed bitterly, shaking his head before storming out of the room — dagger still in hand.

Now only Y/N remained.

She sat frozen in her chair, staring at the man across from her — the man she once gave her heart to.

In-ho slowly rose from the couch and stepped toward her.

But she was faster.

Y/N snatched the second dagger from the table and stood, holding it out toward him.

“Don’t… don’t come closer.”

In-ho froze.

“Don’t you dare come near me,”

She snapped, voice shaking.

“You’re a liar. A killer.”

Those words sliced deeper than any wound.

He had been called that before. Many times.

But coming from her?

It shattered something in him.

“Y/N”

He whispered, taking a step forward.

“Don’t!”

She screamed, stepping back.

“Don’t come any closer or I swear… I’ll kill myself.”

She pressed the dagger to her throat.

In-ho’s heart nearly stopped.

His hands flew up in surrender.

“Okay — okay. I won’t. I promise.”

“Y/N, please… just listen. Just this once.”

His voice cracked, stripped of all command.

He was no longer the Frontman now — he was just In-ho.

A man begging the woman he loved to believe in him one last time.

“I don’t believe you.”

Her voice was a whisper.

“You’re not young-il. You’re not the man I fell in love with.”

The words hit him like a bullet.

He couldn’t speak. Only watched as a tear finally slipped down her cheek.

“Please, Y/N,”

He breathed.

“Don’t say that. I know I’ve done horrible things. I’ve lied. I’ve killed. But my love for you — it was never part of the game. It was pure. It was real. It is real.”

She let out a bitter laugh.

“Pure? Do you even know what that word means?”

She lowered the dagger. Stepped back.

“I loved you. I really did. But now…”

She paused. Her voice cracked.

“If you love me — even a little — you’ll help us. You’ll help us all escape this sick, twisted world of yours.”

The words struck deep.

She threw the dagger to the floor with a sharp clatter.

Then turned.

And without looking back…

She walked away.

⟣ PRESENT ⟢

Y/N trembled with fear, but her grip on the baby girl remained steady as she cradled her tightly against her chest.

Across from her, Gi-hun stood frozen in thought, still lost in everything that had happened — and likely still struggling to accept the impossible truth: Young-il… was the Frontman.

“We can’t stay here forever,”

Gi-hun’s voice suddenly cut through the silence.

“We have to think of something.”

Y/N stepped closer to him, lowering her voice as if afraid someone — or something — might hear.

“Gi-hun…”

She glanced around warily, then met his eyes.

“Maybe… maybe we should wait. What if what In-ho said… what if it’s true?”

Gi-hun stared at her in disbelief.

“What?”

His voice cracked with pain.

“You think that man — the one who killed Jung-bae — will save us?”

The memory of that moment was still fresh in his mind.

The blood. The scream. The mask.

“Do you…”

He paused, his voice thick with emotion.

“Do you still love him, Y/N?”

Her heart stuttered in her chest.

She didn’t know the answer.

She’d spent the whole night convincing herself that In-ho was a monster — a liar, a murderer. But some part of her — the part that remembered whispered promises and warmth in a cold, brutal world — refused to let go.

“I don’t know,”

She whispered, eyes falling to the floor.

“But… I want to believe him.”

She didn’t dare look at Gi-hun after that — afraid of what she might see in his eyes.

Behind the dark glass wall, In-ho stood silently, watching it all unfold alongside the laughing, drunken VIPs. He didn’t need to hear her words to know what she was saying.

And God…

It was already tearing him apart.

His thoughts spun in every direction — calculating, panicking, hoping.

He turned his head slowly toward the VIPs, who were already placing bets and laughing about who would fall first.

His jaw tightened behind the mask.

He was running out of time.

But if there was even a single chance to stop this game — to end all of this — he was going to take it.

Gi-hun ran a hand through his hair, eyes flickering between Y/N and the baby in her arms.

The clock was ticking.

Tension rising.

He turned his gaze toward the last platform — the circle.

There wasn’t much time left.

If they didn’t act soon, all three of them would be eliminated.

“I’ll do it”

Gi-hun said quietly, not looking at her.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then turned to face her.

Stepping closer, he placed his hands gently on her shoulders.

“Y/N…”

His voice was low. Shaky. Thick with emotion.

“This baby — she’s innocent. Jun-hee entrusted her to us. She deserves to live.”

A beat.

“And you…”

He paused, his lips quivering slightly.

“I know you still love him. In-ho. And I don’t blame you.”

“You’re the best person I met here,”

He continued, voice breaking.

“And I know he loves you too. He won’t let you die.”

He tried to smile — a pained, trembling thing — as tears welled in his eyes.

“I have no one left.”

His voice cracked.

“My daughter… she’s safe. She’s happy. That’s enough for me.”

He looked down at the baby nestled in Y/N’s arms and smiled softly.

“I’ll go.”

“You both need to live.”

Y/N’s silent tears streamed down her face as she stepped forward, wrapping her arms tightly around him.

“No… I can’t let you die for us,”

She whispered, shaking her head desperately.

“You can’t just give up your life like this.”

Gi-hun held her close, his own tears falling freely now.

“Someone has to.”

He pulled back gently, brushing a hand over her arm. Then, leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to the baby’s forehead.

“Keep her safe, Y/N.”

“And take care of yourself, too.”

“I’m sure In-ho will come for you.”

He smiled faintly, then began stepping backward.

One step closer to the edge.

Y/N sobbed, her voice breaking apart as she screamed:

“NO! GIHUN, DON’T!!”

But he didn’t stop.

In-ho watched as Gi-hun stepped backward, inching closer to the edge of the triangle-shaped platform.

He stopped — just a few feet from falling.

This was it.

Now or never.

In-ho’s jaw tightened, fists clenched. His heart was hammering in his chest.

He couldn’t let Gi-hun die.

Not after the promise he made to her.

Behind the glass wall, his eyes stayed locked on Y/N.

She had fallen to her knees, crying, screaming, begging Gi-hun to stop.

The baby lay beside her on the platform — unaware of the nightmare unfolding around her.

In-ho’s chest burned with guilt.

The sight of her like that — broken, helpless — was unbearable.

“Goodbye, Y/N”

Gi-hun whispered, a faint, resigned smile on his lips.

And just as he was about to fall back—

BANG.

A gunshot tore through the silence.

Y/N screamed.

Gi-hun flinched, stumbling forward in shock.

Behind the glass, the room exploded into chaos.

In-ho stood holding a smoking gun — and one of the VIPs lay dead at his feet.

The remaining VIPs froze — stunned, furious, terrified.

“What the fuck did you just do?!”

One of them roared.

In-ho didn’t answer.

He simply raised his gun again, pointing it toward the one who spoke — who immediately backed off in fear.

“This game ends here”

He said, voice thick with rage and barely-contained grief beneath the mask.

He turned to one of the pink guards and gave a sharp nod.

Seconds later, the cold robotic voice echoed through the entire arena:

“The game has been stopped.”

On the platform below, Gi-hun and Y/N stared upward — eyes wide.

They knew.

They knew it was him.

Y/N lowered her head, tears still slipping down her cheeks — but a deep part of her exhaled in relief.

A part of her that knew he would come for her.

That he would keep his promise.

Another VIP stepped forward, but In-ho fired a shot into the ceiling — making him freeze instantly.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“You can’t do this!”

Another VIP spat.

“We fund your games! You exist because of us!”

In-ho stepped forward slowly, like a shadow rising.

“I’m ending this game.”

His voice was cold now. Final.

“And I’m ending you with it.”

The room was suddenly flooded with guards — all pink suits, all armed, their weapons now turned on the VIPs.

In-ho walked toward the exit.

“Boss!”

The black-mask officer called out.

“What do you want us to do with them?”

In-ho didn’t turn around.

Didn’t flinch.

“Kill them all”

He said quietly.

Then walked out of the room.

Gunshots echoed in the distance as In-ho stormed through the corridors, heading straight for the game arena.

His mind raced. His grip tightened on the gun still warm in his hand.

A pink-suited guard came running from the control room, nearly stumbling as he approached.

“Sir!”

In-ho stopped and turned toward him. “What is it?”

“We’ve got a problem. Coastal guards — they’re headed this way. We believe they’ve located the island.”

In-ho’s expression remained calm behind the mask, but inside, he knew this day would come.

His brother. Jun-ho.

He always knew he’d find him eventually.

In-ho followed the guard into the control room. A monitor flickered, showing the coordinates and proximity of the coastal ships — closer than ever.

Without hesitation, In-ho crossed to a locked panel on the wall.

He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the hidden compartment.

Inside: a single red button.

He didn't hesitate even for a second — then pressed it.

A piercing siren blared, echoing across the island.

“We’re leaving”

In-ho commanded, his voice like steel.

Guards scattered into motion around him, collecting hard drives, burning papers — prepping the evacuation.

On the Platform…

Gi-hun and Y/N looked up in alarm as the siren wailed through the sky.

“What… what is that?”

Y/N asked, her voice trembling.

Was In-ho behind this?

What was he planning?

Or worse… had he changed his mind again?

Gi-hun rushed to her side, knelt down, scooping the baby girl into his arms and wrapping his free arm around Y/N’s shoulder.

“Stay close,”

He whispered.

“Whatever’s coming… I’ve got you both.”

Suddenly, with a mechanical hiss, the center of the triangular platform began to open — revealing a hidden lift.

Both Y/N and Gi-hun stumbled back, stunned.

The platform rose again…

And there he was.

In-ho. Standing in his usual frontman dress. Mask still on.

“You… what the hell are you doing?!”

Gi-hun shouted, stepping forward as he carefully laid the baby back down.

“What’s going on?!”

Y/N froze, staring at In-ho — her chest rising and falling fast.

She wanted to scream, but something about his eyes beneath the mask told her… he hadn’t given up.

“I’m keeping my promise,”

In-ho said quietly as he stepped forward.

“There’s no time to explain. We have to move. Now.”

“This siren — what does it mean?”

Y/N demanded, her voice cracking between rage and fear.

In-ho knelt beside her, took off his mask and gently lifted the baby into his arms.

Gi-hun made a move, but Y/N’s small shake of her head stopped him.

In-ho looked down at the baby, his expressions changed just for a second. Maybe the memories of his unborn child hit him. He quickly composed himself then looked up at her.

“The island is rigged to explode. We don’t have much time.”

A beat.

“Y/N, please… just trust me. I’ll explain everything later. But if we don’t leave now, none of us make it out.”

Gi-hun took the baby from In-ho and gave Y/N a solemn nod.

“He’s right. Let’s go.”

Y/N stood, still glaring at In-ho.

He reached out a hand to help her up.

But she ignored it. As she was still angry at him. She stood on her own — proud, guarded.

In-ho lowered his hand and curled it into a tight fist, but said nothing.

He led them both out of the arena, through a hidden back corridor.

A hidden dock. A ship waiting.

The guards had already boarded the other escape vessels, leaving behind only the sound of alarms and the ticking clock of destruction.

Gi-hun boarded with the baby, Y/N right behind him.

In-ho hesitated, turning for one last look at the island.

And then he stepped aboard.

Moments later, the engines roared to life, and the ship sped away from the shore.

As they sailed into the horizon, a massive explosion lit up the sky behind them — the island engulfed in flames.

It was over.

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦

The sky was dark, moonlight hidden behind drifting clouds.

The steady sound of waves filled the air as the ship cut through the black ocean, heading toward the nearest safe dock.

Inside a quiet room below deck, Y/N gently rocked the baby girl in her arms — her tiny eyes fluttering closed, unaware of the world she’d survived.

Meanwhile, up on the deck, Gi-hun stood at the railing, staring blankly into the ocean, lost in thought.

Footsteps approached.

In-ho came to stand beside him, silent for a moment. Then he held out two small bottles of soju.

“You remember?” he said softly.

“We promised we’d drink soju together… once we made it out alive.”

Gi-hun didn’t even glance at him.

He let out a dry, bitter scoff and shook his head.

“I made that promise to young-il.”

In-ho lowered his head, guilt crashing over him like the waves below.

“I know,” he said quietly.

“And I know you hate me for everything I’ve done. You have every right to.”

He looked over at Gi-hun, whose eyes stayed locked on the horizon — silent, hard, unreadable.

“But let me fix things now. Whatever I can. I did… horrible things. I thought humanity was dead. But you—”

In-ho swallowed hard, voice thick.

“You proved me wrong.”

Gi-hun finally turned his head, surprised.

“You were going to give up your life… just to save Y/N. And that baby. You showed me… there are still good people left in this world.”

The man who once orchestrated death games… now standing beside him, confessing his defeat?

Gi-hun didn’t know how to respond.

Not fully.

But after a long pause, he reached out — and without looking — took one of the soju bottles from In-ho’s hand.

“Finally,” he muttered under his breath.

He opened the bottle, still not meeting In-ho’s eyes.

But that single action said enough.

In-ho smiled faintly.

He didn’t speak again. He knew forgiveness wouldn’t come easy.

But maybe, just maybe…

This was the first step.

Y/N gently laid the baby down on the bed, her hands lingering on the blanket.

She leaned back against the headboard, eyes fluttering closed.

Click.

The door creaked open.

She sat up instantly.

In-ho stepped in and quietly shut the door behind him.

“Can we talk?”

His voice was low. Hesitant. Not the voice of the Frontman. Just… his.

Y/N didn’t turn to face him.

“There’s nothing to talk about” she said, rising from the bed.

She turned her back to him — because she knew the moment she looked into his eyes, she’d lose all her resolve.

In-ho walked toward her slowly until he stood just a few steps away.

“Y/N…” he breathed.

“I know you hate me. And I deserve that. But…”

His voice cracked.

“Please believe me — loving you was never part of the game. I lied, yes. I did unforgivable things. But you— You were the only truth in all of it.”

His eyes shimmered. His voice, shaking.

Y/N turned sharply and stepped toward him, rage flooding through her chest.

She grabbed his collar with trembling hands.

“How dare you.”

Tears spilled from her eyes now — raw, broken, endless.

“You LIED to me. You faked your death. Do you even understand what that did to me?”

“I wanted to die. Because in a world where you didn’t exist — what was the fucking point of living?”

In-ho’s eyes dropped to the floor.

Her words shattered him.

And then — he fell.

Dropped to his knees.

Like a broken man — like a boy who lost everything.

He wrapped his arms around her legs, clinging to her like a lifeline.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry I made you feel that way…”

His voice was barely a whisper, thick with the weight of every buried emotion he’d ever carried — ones he’d never shown the world… except to her.

Y/N stood frozen — watching him.

The Frontman. The cold-blooded man behind the mask.

Now crying like a child at her feet.

She slowly knelt down, trembling, and gently cupped his face in her palms.

She wiped his tears away with her thumbs.

“I… I want to forgive you,” she whispered.

“But I can’t. Not after everything you did — to me, to us.”

In-ho’s heart lurched. His breath caught. Was this it? Was this the end?

“No” he whispered urgently, cupping her face.

He pressed his forehead to hers.

“Don’t say that. You don’t mean it. I know you don’t. Please — just one chance. Let me prove I’ve changed. Let me be better.”

He pulled back, searching her eyes for anything — a flicker of hope, the softness she used to show him.

But all he saw was pain.

So much pain.

She didn’t answer. She just shook her head.

And something inside him broke.

“Y/N, please…”

His voice cracked under the weight of desperation.

His hands trembled.

“I’ll protect you both — you and the baby. I’ll take you far away from this hell. I’ll keep you safe. Just… please don’t leave me like this. Please—”

He was spiraling — voice unraveling, panic rising.

She slowly stood up.

Took a single step back.

And that was enough.

“It’s over, In-ho.”

⋆｡°✩ 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 ✩°｡⋆

The house smelled of warm vanilla and sugar. Y/N had just finished baking Yu-ri’s favorite cookies.

Yu-ri — that was the name she’d given Junhee’s daughter. Now one year old, chubby-cheeked, bright-eyed… the spitting image of her mother.

Tiny footsteps pattered into the kitchen.

“Mama.”

Y/N turned with a soft smile. Yu-ri stood there, rubbing her sleepy eyes with her tiny fists. She was still half-asleep, but hearing her voice always filled Y/N’s chest with a bittersweet ache.

She knelt, scooping her up into her arms and kissing her temple.

“Did you sleep well, sweetheart?”

Yu-ri gave a slow nod, wrapping her small arms around Y/N’s neck.

Just then, her phone rang from the living room. Y/N’s face lit up when she saw the caller ID.

Gihun.

She pressed the green button, settled on the couch, and gently placed Yu-ri in her lap.

“Hey! Gihun. How are you?”

“I’m good. What about you? And how’s the little queen?”

“She just woke up. Moody as always”

Y/N laughed, just as Yu-ri peeked into the camera and babbled: “Un..cle!”

Gihun chuckled, but his eyes glistened with tears.

“She looks… just like Junhee,”

He said softly, and a flicker of pain crossed his face.

Sensing the shift in mood, Y/N tried to steer the conversation gently.

“So? Adjusted to American life yet?”

Gihun had moved to the U.S. a year ago to be closer to his daughter — trying to start fresh, to live differently.

“Yeah. You could say I’m figuring it out.”

Then, a pause.

“Y/N… Inho called me last night.”

Her smile faded.

Inho. The man she had once loved. The man who had broken her.

The memories crashed into her like a wave — the betrayal, the lies, the pain… and somehow, still, the love.

“I forgave him,” Gihun said gently.

“He’s changed, Y/N. And I hope, someday, you’ll be able to forgive him too.”

Before she could respond, the front door creaked open.

“I’ll call you later, Gihun.” She ended the call and placed the phone aside.

“I’m home!”

A familiar voice called.

Yu-ri’s entire face lit up.

“Appa! Appa!!”

She scrambled off the couch and ran to the door.

Inho walked in, catching her in his arms instantly.

“Aww, appa’s little princess” He whispered, kissing the top of her head.

“Can appa get a kiss too?”

Yu-ri giggled and gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek, making him laugh.

He stepped into the living room, holding her, and Y/N stood nearby — a plate of warm cookies in her hand.

“Yu-ri, come baby. Let’s eat.”

Yu-ri gasped excitedly, “Yayyy!” and reached for the cookies.

Inho gently set her down, and she happily took a big bite.

Y/N turned to head back into the kitchen—

But Inho caught her wrist.

She turned to him.

He dropped down on one knee.

A small red velvet box in his hand.

Y/N’s heart stopped.

“I know you weren’t expecting this”

Inho began, his voice trembling.

“And I know you haven’t fully forgiven me. But it’s been a year… and I’m so thankful you decided to give me a second chance that night”

“Today, I want to make it official. I want to be a father to Yu-ri. I want to be yours — forever.”

“Y/N"

"Will you marry me?”

Tears welled in her eyes.

Could this really be happening?

The memories of the games, the horror, the heartbreak… it all came crashing back — but so did every moment of change, of healing, of the quiet love that had grown again.

She nodded slowly, her voice breaking:

“Yes.”

Inho’s eyes widened, stunned.

“I forgave you, Inho. I just never said it. You’ve changed — and you’ve proven it.”

“But promise me… you’ll never go back to who you were.”

He stood, pulling her into his arms.

“I swear. I’ll spend the rest of my life giving you both the happiness you deserve.”

He slid the ring onto her finger.

They both smiled through their tears.

And then he leaned in and kissed her — a soft, emotional kiss filled with everything they couldn’t say. Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck, returning it with just as much love.

“Oooo…”

Yu-ri’s curious voice made them break the kiss and laugh.

Inho picked her up again and tickled her until she squealed with joy.

Y/N grabbed her phone with a grin.

“Time to tell someone the news.”

She video-called Gihun.

“What happened? You ended the call so suddenly earlier—”

She raised her hand.

The ring sparkled on her finger.

Inho stepped in, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“WHAT? He proposed to you?!”

Gihun’s jaw dropped.

“Damn! I’m so happy for you both,”

He said, his voice cracking, eyes glassy.

“We have decided to officially make Yu-ri our daughter” Inho added.

Gihun nodded in approval.

“After everything… you two deserve this. A real, peaceful life.”

“Finally,”

He smiled.

“A happy ending.”

Y/N and Inho echoed together:

“Yes"

"Happily ever after.”

[2kiran]

STATUS: ON-GOING | READ ON AO3

HERE LIES THE five times Arthur called you ‘honey.’

PAIRING: Arthur Morgan x Reader

CONTENT WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, Bounty Hunter!Reader, Ex-Military!Reader, top male reader, bottom arthur, canon-typical violence, fluff, hurt/comfort, reader gets injured, arthur does not have TB. warnings included in every chapter.

SETTING: Red Dead Redemption 2

THE DIRECTORY ❯❯ PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

EXTRAS ❯❯

TO BE CONTINUED

[kiana12113]

⁺⊹RED DEAD REDEMPTION HEAD CANONS⊹⁺

➤ Arthur Morgan, Hosea Matthews, Javier Escuella, Sean MacGuire, John Marston, Kieran Duffy x Fem!Reader

Note: I’m not quite sure if these are still considered “head canons” since I’ve definitely made this wordy.

(ﾟﾛﾟ;) This is my first post here in Tumblr, despite lurking here for a while. XD

Also Author, a month later: I’ve posted this merely a month ago and I feel inexplicable cringe. thank you for reading

WC: 5.7k

Warnings: Major Character Death (Spoilers), Illness, Profanity, Mentions of Injury, Sex, Alcohol, Violence

References:

♥︎ ; fluff ♣︎ ; angst ♦︎ ; general ♠︎ ; smut

ARTHUR MORGAN

♥︎ ; When he is offered to go somewhere, or to do anything in general, he always says his signature comment. “Hmm, I’m not sure. Let me ask my wife first.”

♥︎ ; He says it every single time. There is no day he doesn’t say this statement. Some people find it annoying, like, per sé — John, when he asks Arthur to go steal something with him and Arthur isn’t in the mood. He rolls his eyes in annoyance, and crosses his arms, “Oh, are you comin’ or not?” The other half, though, do like it, like Mary Beth — who smiles and chuckles, “Of course, Mister Morgan.”

♥︎ ; One time, he was out in Saint Denis without you. He just came for the trapper and some things in the general store, when a woman came to talk to him. She walked slowly along the wooden plank floor, and whispered, “Oh aren’t you just what a lady dreams of?” Arthur immediately knew what she was after. He looks at her with a deadpan expression, saying, “That so? Damn, it might be true. I should ask my wife for confirmation, huh, madam?” And she got the message. It pissed her off, while Arthur chuckled and shook his head.

♥︎ ; He also likes flashing his wedding ring a lot. He thinks it’s some trophy (which it is). He never takes it off, even in showering.

♦︎ ; Ever since you got married, he’d become more reserved in missions or going outside. He didn’t want to lose you. Didn’t want to lose the peaceful life he was close to getting. Plus, every time he did, you would reprimand him.

♦︎ ; He met you at a café and bakery shop that you owned. He was entranced the moment he met you (which was closing time, and he was covered in blood). That night, he’d become a loyal customer, always getting to order the same coffee and bread every week.

♥︎ ; At that time, he’d often come back to camp smiling, and they’d know. “Who’s the lucky girl, Arthur?” Hosea asks, with a small smile as he lifts his head from the newspaper. “Nothin’, Hosea.”

♥︎ ; “Hey, miss… I’d reckon the coffee’d taste better if it was served with you.” He tried to flirt once, and you thought it was assault. He was almost permanently banned that time. When he told this story to Karen. The girl laughed her ass off. “Arthur… You’re a lost cause.”

♥︎ ; He constantly has baby fever, when he’s with you, you’d find him staring at Jack often. “Now imagine one of our own, I’d… I’d be so happy.” He’s smiling like an idiot. You refuse and he pouts. “Oh, come on, darlin’…” But he never forces you. It’s just sometimes he’s so cute it feels as if you need to do it.

♣︎ ; He is often unaware of his own looks and looks down on himself. When he gets sight of a mirror, he can’t help but sigh and comment. “Yer becoming old. Old and ugly, Morgan.” It’s one problem you two are working on together.

♣︎ ; “You just… don’t get it. Of course you think that. Yer my wife, darlin’…” He frowns. It’s a heartbreaking thing to hear, since you’d do just about anything for this man.

♦︎ ; People would describe him as an angry old man. Well, back then. When you and him became a thing, he tried his best not for his emotions to get over him. The only thing he screams “Damn it… for God’s sake!” now is when the animals are eaten and escaped again (since you two live in a ranch.)

♠︎ ; Arthur likes to guide you through sex, praising you quietly. He’s quite nonverbal other than that. But trust he will always make sure that you are comfortable, and your needs are being fed. “Ah, good girl.”

♠︎ ; He’s on top of you while his right hand is gripping the headboard of the bed, to which it is shaking. He’s not rough, though, he makes sure he’s gentle enough and has a fear of accidentally hurting you. He’s slow, taking in every moment and every inch of you and how your body twitches and arches. When he’s drunk, though, maybe it’s a different story. It brings out a different Arthur. A little wobly in his actions, but delivers either way.

♥︎ ; When he found out you were pregnant, it was the happiest day of his life. Oh, he smiled like an idiot, holding your hands and repeatedly saying “Really?” “Seriously— are ya serious?” “Really?” “Yer pregnant— really?” You laughed, nodding and nodding and nodding. “..’M sorry, love, I… I jus’ I can’t believe it.”

♥︎ ; He’d plan so much. Like he’d be very overreacting to the point he already bought clothes for BOTH genders. He didn’t care. A boy, a girl… It doesn’t matter. It was his child. With you. And that made him the luckiest man in the planet.

♥︎ ; When you two are laying in your shared bed, he’d put his head on your stomach (even if it wasn’t even that big yet) and coo. “Are ya… Are ya there? Oh, pa’s… pa’s excited to meet ya. So much,” He murmured, kissing your stomach gently. “Pa loves you and ma so much.” He added, circling your stomach as he sighs, smiling. It’s heart warming. He’s so excited.

♦︎ ; The journey of pregnancy wasn’t easy, of course, but he was always there. He’d wake up in the middle of the night to accompany you to relieve yourself, or would offer to clean and cook. You almost lost your life in giving birth, and it scared the hell of out Arthur, holding your hands and pleading. It seemed he wasn’t that bad of a man, though, as you live and have a healthy baby girl.

♥︎ ; All the pages of his journal contain you, your face, pretty much. He never lets you read it, though. “No, darlin’, it’s private,” He says gently, but when you give him about two long “please”s, his resolve would probably crumble then.

♥︎ ; He is a girl dad. Proudly so. He would lift your little girl (and you too) and spin you both around, laughing. He would learn how to tie pigtails for his girl. He would teach her the colors of the rainbow, how to draw and write, how to identify animals for when she’s old enough to go hunting. But oh, boy, he’d be one hell of a protective dad, though. When miss grows up into adolescence, he’d make sure no boys are near her. “No boys? Alright, you can go.”

♣︎ ; The day he finds out he has tuberculosis, though, he doesn’t say it to you and your daughter. He keeps it inside, hoping that you two wouldn’t find out — he didn’t want you stressing over him. He knew his time would come, so he’d rather spend it all with you without worrying you.

♣︎ ; But it doesn’t get better, it gets worse. And you notice, but he shuts you off. “It’s nothin’, darlin’… Just…” He coughs, clutching his chest. “Arthur… You know you can’t hide this from me. Tell me, please.” You pleaded, hand on his back as you waited for his coughing fit to finish. His palm had blood. “I… ‘m sorry, darlin’… I jus’ don’t want you to worry ‘bout me.” “Oh, you fool… You should have told me, Arthur. You…” “I’ve tuberculosis— says the doctor. I—I don’t want you to raise her alone… I don’t wanna die, but…” You hug him, tears flowing down your eyes. “Shut up, will you? You’ll live. You’ll live, Arthur.”

HOSEA MATTHEWS

♦︎ ; After Bessie, he never thought he’d like— let alone love someone again. You; who had reminded him of her in so many ways. At first, when you had found out he used to be married, you closed yourself off in respect. He respected this decision, after all, it was what he wanted. But he found himself growing restless. He saw her in you. But you were you, different, and yet, so alike.

♥︎ ; In some warm, nice mornings, he’d dance with you.

Put Your Head on my Shoulder

Can’t Help falling in Love with you It would be sweet and romantic, even though both of you are now a little slow.

♥︎ ; He calls you ‘darling’, and doesn’t fail to compliment your beauty first thing in the morning. “Good Morning, Darling…” He grunts a little as he pushes himself near you, kissing your forehead. “Beautiful as ever.”

♥︎ ; He loves to braid your hair, or any other hairstyles that he’s learned. “Mhm… this one looks good on you.”

♦︎ ; Honorable mention, he’d be the type to wear those wizard blue pajamas at night. You, on the other hand, would wear those fluffy extravagant night dresses.

♥︎ ; Before sleeping, he’ll likely be reading mystery novels. Both of you like them, but instead of reading it individually— you found that him explaining the plot to you was easier and better. He’s a bit of a nerd, and you like seeing his face light up when you ask, “So who do you think did it?” He’ll gladly explain to you for hours before finding out you’ve already slept halfway through his ramblings.

♣︎ ; “I’m getting old, darling,” “So am I, Hosea. We both are.” “Fair point… I just…” “I just want to live out the rest of my days with you. I imagine I’ll probably leave you first.” “Don’t say that.” “When I do…” “Hosea.”

JAVIER ESCUELLA

♥︎ ; He loves singing songs he made for you while playing the guitar. “This one’s for you, hmm?” He smiles, and that look of surprise in your face always gets him. It brings a warm feeling to his heart that can’t be explained.

♥︎ ; Pet names! Pet names! Pet names! He just can’t get enough of it. But oh, when you do the same to him, he suddenly loses all his charm and flare, and turns into a puddle of putty. That’s how bad he has it for you.

♥︎ ; Despite playing the guitar for years, he’ll often complain about the pain in his fingertips after he plays. It doesn’t really hurt, of course, due to the built up callouses, but he just wants your care and attention. He especially likes it when you kiss them. “Ow, ow… My love, my fingertips are bleeding.” They aren’t. “Will you please kiss it to make it better?” He says dramatically. You, of course, indulge.

♥︎ ; He’d teach you to dance. “You don’t know how to dance? Well, come here, I’ll teach you.” “My ma taught it to me, told me… I should know how to. It’s a skill. And to swoon women, ah?” He chuckles. You roll your eyes, as your fingers are intertwined and he guides your feet through the pace of Dutch’s music. “You’re a natural, hermosa.” (You were stepping on his feet the whole time.)

♥︎ ; He’s quite protective of you, and even though he doesn’t show it, gets jealous easily. One time, you two were in a saloon due to a mission, and this one guy approached you— his gaze revealing his intentions already. “Hey, darling. You look like a real fine woman, hmm?” Javier immediately notices this but knows you can handle this yourself. He tries to play it cool, nonchalantly observing the interaction. You reply with a lifted brow. “Not interested.” “Aw, come on, darling. Aren’t you at least a little lonely?” And in a swift action, Javier is next to you already. “Didn’t you hear her, asshole? She’s married, okay?” He was ready to throw hands.

♥︎ ; “Oh, I wasn’t aware we were married,” You said jokingly the way back to the camp, striding on the horses at a calm pace. He scoffed. Every time he got reminded of the interaction, he could swear a vein would pop out. “No, no yet.” He replies.

♥︎ ; Another moment you remember is when you two went to fetch something for Pearson. You were buying something, and it seems the shop keeper had taken a liking to you. “You want that one? Sure, it’s for free, my lady.” Javier’s ears perked, his eyes from the sky suddenly to you two. “I don’t mind a little other payment.” The shopkeeper continues, the underlying statement obvious even for an idiot. Javier, irritated, walks closer in a fast pace. “Ay, ay! That’s my wife, pendejo! ¿Eres una idiota, ah? ¿Tienes un deseo de muerte? Do you want a knife in your throat? Ha? Fucking— Hijo de puta!” You took him away, whispering to him, “Ay… Javier, be quiet. We’re supposed to keep a low profile in Rhodes,” He mumbles back, “I can’t be quiet when these assholes think they’ve got a chance.”

♥︎ ; He often is very conscious on how he looks. This man has a wide selection of clothes in his wardrobe, and they are all equally loved and important to him. When people in camp start to realize his beloved poncho is not being worn, he just points a finger at you, since you wore it. He didn’t mind if you stole his clothes, rather, it was a quite intimate thing that he cherished. He loved seeing them on you.

♥︎ ; Carves your initials in his precious knives. This means a lot to him.

♠︎ ; This man cannot keep his hands to himself, never. One moment you’re doing something niche around the camp, like reading a book— and the next he’s right behind you, hands snaking on your waist. He tugs you closer to him, and he rests his chin on your shoulder, squinting his eyes a little as he tries to read the printed words. “What’re you reading, querida?” He murmurs, his warm breath tingling around your neck. From the get-go, you knew what he was trying to do. “That book more important than me?” He takes the book swiftly as you look at him in confusion. “You know I wish those hands were doing something else.” His gaze darts over to your lips, as he licks his own in response. God, this man. He finds that the risk of getting caught while in the act is more exciting.

♠︎ ; He likes when you tug his hair, his little ponytail behind him. His favorite thing to do is murmur sweet nothings in your ear, all dirty and the sort; as he hands work magic on you and his lips nibble on your ear’s shell. He couldn’t care less if you two were still fully-clothed, as well. In fact, it was better for him. His hands are the best part of him, capable of letting out noises from your mouth you didn’t know you could make. His eyes bore into you, half-lidded, while his mouth is slightly agape, struggling to make any words while his fingers push in and out in a rhythmic manner. It feels so good, the sound of wet skin against itself added more heat through your lower abdomen.

♠︎ ; Javier loses it when he’s about to finish. The only thing he can do it mumble and occasionally moan out a few incoherent Spanish words, repeating your name over and over again. “Ah.. mi amor.. E-estoy… cerca, Dios mio…”

♣︎ ; His loyalty to Dutch blinded his own decision-making abilities. So when you died in the middle of the gunfire’s chaos, he knew it was his fault. The way your lifeless body fell to the ground with a thud, and yet, the world still kept spinning drove him insane. And he couldn’t rush there to cradle you in his arms, since if he did, he would die, too. He thought about it. He remembered everything, and in that moment, it was as if the world was cloudy, hazy, and he didn’t know what to do. He felt empty.

♣︎ ; He didn’t say anything. He looked at the corpse, but he couldn’t hold you. He couldn’t. He fled, and ran away — back to Mexico, and then one quiet night while hiding away he would finally reveal his tears. “I… was selfish, mi amor. Please. I can’t…” He looks at the ring in his fingers. He can’t make an excuse. He’s torn between his loyalty for Dutch and you. He’d remember all the promises he made, and all the ones he failed to keep. After this whole thing was over, he would marry you, and he would live with you quietly along some river or forest. It didn’t matter, as long as it was you. Maybe even a little girl, sure. But now that was all gone.

♣︎ ; All he has now to carry is the burden of guilt and some silver ring. He knows he’ll die, too, at some point - but he’s not sure he’ll meet you. “Ah, mi corazon… I’m sure you’re up there. I’ll probably rot in hell for my sins.”

SEAN MACGUIRE

♦︎ ; Sean is a dirty man. Both mentally and physically— so he wouldn’t imagine even after ten bottles of beer that someone like you would tolerate him, let alone like him. You fell first, he fell harder type of situation. He dropped the bottle of Whiskey he was holding when he heard Arthur say something. “Sean, come on, listen to Hosea. Get up, will ya? Can’t believe [READER] likes this sack of shit.”

♦︎ ; “Huh? She does? She likes me? [READER]?” He says in a dumbfounded expression, as Arthur clicks his tongue, puts his palm over his forehead and shakes his head slowly in disappointment. “Of course she does, you damn idiot. And I can’t believe it, either. I could’ve sworn she liked smart men.”

♥︎ ; He isn’t well-put together, in fact, he’s downright nasty— reeking of alcohol, unwashed clothes for days, and unkept hair. But when he finds out this information, he suddenly learns how to take a shower once in a while, and people notice that, often making knowing faces to each other. “Hey, mister MacGuire, you’re looking real fine today,” Javier starts, wiggling his eyebrows. “Well— yeah I am! I always am!” Sean replies, fixing his hat.

♥︎ ; Sean describes himself as the woman charmer, though in reality, when he’s faced with you, he can’t help but stutter — his Irish accent making it more unintelligible. It doesn’t make him cool. One time, he tries to flirt (given the beer has granted him confidence this time) and leans on the empty barrel next to him with a grin. He falls down, “Ow!” and he rubs his head. He couldn’t look up at you. For the next few days, he appears to avoid barrels every time he sees them.

♥︎ ; “My lady,” He says, bowing down with a smile as he lets you go first in this venue he’s gotten to somehow weasel his way in. He takes your hand in his, as you two act as if you’re a wealthy couple coming here in their regular dinner. Times like these he always remembers to cherish. Because although he wished to, in this life, he can’t spoil you the normal way.

♥︎ ; This man gets piss-drunk and makes a beeline to your tent, occasionally bumping into other gang members in the process. “Sean, watch your step…” Lenny says, sighing and shaking his head. When he gets there, he plops his whole body down your cot as you jolt up in surprise. “Sean?” This is normal — you felt the weight and you knew it was him. It’s either he’s already asleep, or you hold his chin and look at his sad face. “Darlin’… You’re leaving me?” He lips curl into a pout, and his eyes swell. “I love you still… Don’t, please.”

♥︎ ; Loves getting a rise out of you. He knows what you like and don’t like, and uses it to his advantage to mess with you just because. He loves annoying you, and is always oddly proud about it since you’re one of the calmest people in the camp. One time, he enters your tent with that grin of his, holding something in his hand. It was a really stinky plant. You frowned. “Sean, get that out of my face, you’re disgusting,” He puts it even closer. “Sean!” He laughs, jiggling it in his hand. “What? Ye don’t like it, me love? It’s a great present from handsome ol’ me,” When he sees you about to gag, he puts it away. And you look away, refusing to talk with him any further. “Er— sorry, I… Sorry…” He gets all guilty and quiet. He then asks for your forgiveness the whole day.

♥︎ ; Has the most stupidest laugh ever. It doesn’t help that when he sleeps with you, he often giggles and speaks incoherently, shifting around and occasionally kicking you. He doesn’t mean it. “Mmh… Heh,” He snickers quietly. “No, John… She’s me girl. We can’t share.” And his Irish accent gets even stronger, if that’s possible. “No, get away, Arthur…”

♠︎ ; When he sleeps with you, every limb is tangled as if you two are now one entity altogether. A hand usually slips inside your shirt, in need to feel your skin. It’s rarely in a chaste way— you know Sean. It usually lowers down to your abdomen, his index finger circling the surface softly. And he’ll just keep going. When you notice what he’s about to do — you grumble and he laughs quietly. “Aw. c’mon. I’m not even doing anything.”

♣︎ ; Sean’s convinced no one really believes in him. The confidence he displays is usually for show, to make himself believe that he really does have a contribution and worth to himself. He’s seldom quiet — but when he is, he’s usually away thinking about it.

JOHN MARSTON

♥︎ ; The scar on his right cheek at this point is his signature. It doesn’t hurt anymore, as it’s fully healed, however - he still asks you to put ointment on it. Just because he likes you touching his face, and that little face you make when you’re deep in concentration. “Stop moving, John,” You say, and he straightens up, eyes on you. “Of course, darlin’. You know… I like this view a lot.” He says with a small grin. You should have put the ointment in his mouth.

♦︎ ; Running away with this man wasn’t easy, but at least it didn’t end up like Dutch and Molly. Oh, dear.

♥︎ ; His favorite thing to do with you is to place your hand in his, bring it up to his lips, and kiss your soft knuckles gently. “M’lady.” “Ah, shut up. You know I’m not.” “Anymore— ‘cause of me.” He replies, but there is no teasing glint in his eyes. You sigh briefly, tucking the loose strands of his behind his ear. “You know that doesn’t matter to me, John.”

♦︎ ; Your parents and life were miserable. You could say John saved you, when the gang went to the mansion and stole everything in sight. You pleaded, when you saw him, “Please. Bring me with you. I… I can’t live here.” And John was the first guy to convince Dutch to let you come with them. “What’s goin’ to do us good bringin’ a princess with us? It’ll only make the bounties on our heads bigger.” Arthur butts in, but Dutch shakes his head. “No… No, I’ve got a feeling she’ll be useful.”

♥︎ ; John can’t swim — and apparently, the water is his biggest enemy. This makes him not bathe for weeks. You force him to, most of the time; and he will keep on refusing you until you come up with a consensus. “No— no, darlin’— the dirt makes me stronger and resistant to—” He hears your sigh and the sees the way you pinch your nose bridge. “I’ll take a bath with you.” “…Okay.” It’s as if he’s some child.

♥︎ ; He likes your nape very much. He kisses it gently, leaving a chaste trail down until the tip of your spine. When he sees your hair up, exposing this delicate part of yours, he’ll come like a moth to a flame, hugging you from behind. He loves your smell, — he finds it comforting. “Mm… My Angel.”

♣︎ ; He swears to you he’ll be a better man, to be not a fool, to get you out of here and live the normal life you deserve— with him. You can tell the poor man is trying, but sometimes, it annoys you because it gets to a point where he disappears for days and comes back with a new scar. He knows you’re worried, but it’ll always be the same excuse from him, “It’s for the better.”

♥︎ ; You two had an argument about him acting brash and reckless, and it lasted for a long while, maybe a week or so. That time, he was barely seen in camp, and so were you. “They’re fighting, aren’t they?” Charles would ask Arthur, and he’d nod. “Yeah, well, look at jus’ how much John is out. He’s probably robbed all of Valentine at this point.” Fighting with you makes him act more stupider, actually. He comes back to your tent with another injury, and this time, you couldn’t keep it anymore further. “John, what the hell?” You ask, walking over to him and inspecting it. He looks like a guilty dog. “You’re… Just come here.” You tend to his wound, as silence ensues for a while. It was tense, before he sighed. Both of you speak up at the same time, with a mutter of “Sorry.” This earns a mutual stare of surprise, and a dumbfounded look painted on John’s face. “Oh, darlin’…”

♠︎ ; John rolls his eyes in pleasure, mouth slightly agape as moans threaten to leave his mouth. You were so good, so sweet, sucking his cock as his body leaned behind him for support. It made his knees weak, and you just about were doing the best job. “Ah.. Ah.. Darlin’…” He feels himself reach the back of your throat, as you took in every liquid that came from him. At this point, your mouth had memorized every vein and put it into memory, and your hands held his hips tightly. He lets out a string of cusses, holding your head as his fingers dug through the strands of hair in need. “Yeah… God, just like that…” He pushes you further, and he feels your throat tighten upon the action. You were taking him in like a drink, and he wouldn’t complain. The fluid that stains your lips are licked upon contact, and he can’t help but sigh at the relief. “Fuck…”

♠︎ ; John doesn’t say it out loud but you know he enjoys being under you, while you give him handjobs. Your hand cups his length, moving in a just pace while you murmur how pretty he looks. He’ll be all whiny, and needy, asking for you. “Ah, yeah… I’m… I need you, [READER].”

♥︎ ; He proposes to you and tries to be romantic. It’s been a week since the two of you were staying in this hotel, and you were contemplating if it was your birthday since he was with you the whole time. No missions, no going out… just with you. You’re both sitting quietly away somewhere, by a lake, and the sun is almost set. He holds your hand gently, and you wonder why he actually looks clean today. In reality, he’s been planning this for months, and he’s brought out his best suit and his hands are practically shaking in nervousness. He’s talked about this with Hosea, Arthur, even Mary Beth. He doesn’t want to fuck this up. “Just be yourself, John.” They’d all say. Now, he looks at you, smiling while he kisses your hand. Kneeling down, he shows a ring. “I… [READER]. I know it’s not much, but… I’ll try to make you happy. Will you marry me?” And he tries to be romantic, he really does, but he can’t help but shift himself awkwardly and try not to evade your eyes that were now swelling up. “Oh, you idiot,” You say, urging for him to stand up. “Yes, yes… I will. I’ll marry you.” His face lights up like a Christmas tree, as he holds your waist and spins you around acting all giddy. “You do? You will?” He can’t believe it.

♣︎ ; And you knew one day that the mistakes, the crimes, and overall bad he’d done would catch up to him. You were having a baby to be delivered. You hadn’t told him yet, hoping to surprise him and get a reaction out of him. You’d bet he’d cry. But Bounty hunters were coming, and they couldn’t care less. They opened the house’s doors with urgency and force, the guns’ barrels pointing at you. “Found the wife,” One said, eyeing the ring on your finger while you tried to protect yourself. “Where’s John Marston? Listen, we’re in a hurry here. I’ll blow you brains out if you don’t tell me where he is, woman. Don’t try anything funny.” In a panicked state, you grabbed a nearby hidden revolver and shot the hunter by the abdomen, as he groaned in pain and fell to his knees. The fellow bounty hunters pulled their triggers in unison, though only one bullet manages to pierce you. Unfortunately, it placed itself by your stomach. John barges through the door, horrified, as the hunters dropped to the floor. All you could hear were bullets flying, your own fast, ragged breathing, and John repeatedly calling out your name. “No, no, no, no… [READER], look at me. Don’t go. [READER].” He says softly, as his hand tries to stop the blood from flowing any further. You could see in your blurred vision that he tears were falling from his eyes. “No… No, please. Please.” He says again, and you manage to speak despite the blood coming out of your mouth. “John… John, I’m pregnant.” Everything is shattered for him. He freezes. “I love you, okay? We love you.” You add weakly. He wished he came sooner. Regret, guilt, and fear began to fill his heart when he saw the light in your eyes fading away. “No… Please… I—I love you. I love you both. Don’t… Stay with me, please.”

KIERAN DUFFY

♥︎ ; You caught Kieran plucking the petals of a white flower, sitting down on a rock as he mumbled quietly to himself, “She loves me… she loves me not… she loves me. She does?” He says, and realizes you were listening. He turns red and nervously throws the flower stem away, coughing. He had a cute little crush on you. It was painfully obvious — he knew that equally.

♥︎ ; He would stare at you from afar, talking to Branwen absentmindedly. “Ain’t she just… the prettiest girl you’ve seen?” He says, like the horse could understand.

♥︎ ; Flirting with him (or attempting to) was a comical and cute sight. You’d say something completely innocent and blood would rush to the tip of his ears and dust his cheeks immediately. “There he is,” You say. “How’s my lovely Kieran doing?” He forgets to breathe.

♥︎ ; The mere act of fingers brushing would startle the poor guy, however, he tries to make amends for his terrible nervousness with trying to at least make small advances to you. “Hey, uh, [READER]. You’re… looking really… pretty today.”

♥︎ ; His hands are sweaty and shaky when you hold them, but he manages to always gently caress your knuckles with his thumb.

♥︎ ; Kieran loves the feel of your lips. It gets him giddy and excited inside, and he looks all shy and cute on the outside as well. He loves when you plaster kisses all over his face, especially on the bridge of his nose, like a little branding. He always looks a little dizzy after the assault.

♥︎ ; “I… ain’t ever had a relationship before, but… I know I ain’t leavin’ you. Ever.” He mumbles, with a small smile as he hands you a necklace. “I… I love you.” He says, for the first time, and it makes you the happiest woman in the world. “I love you too, Kieran.”

♠︎ ; Gets hard really easily. One moment you’re fishing with him, and the next you see him urgently facing his body away from you, having a hard time holding the fishing rod. You could swear he was shaking, clutching it with a grip of an eagle. “What’s wrong?” You ask innocently, but he refuses to indulge in giving you an answer. “N-Nuthin’…” He manages to get out.

♣︎ ; The last thing Kieran ever says to you is “see you later.” It’s a simple statement, a short promise, that he broke soon after. He always had that nervous smile when he departed with you, scared that something unpredictable might happen. Life was going good to him, at least, when he met you. The man had a whole life to live ahead of him, albeit his past posing as a shadow. The news of his death didn’t register in your mind until a few weeks later, when you had yourself on your knees, clutching the necklace he gave you in your hands. And it hurt twice as much when you realized you were practically the only one mourning him.

[zae-heeyyy]

I LOOOVVVVVVEEEEEDDD THIS SO MUCH!!!!

Aaaahhh, the good ole chapter 2 letter from Mary trope. It's one of my favorites! First of all, I LOVE the way your wrote Arthur's dialogue! It sounded so much like him, especially the exchange with Hosea. I'm a sucker for Hosea fatherly advice in any fic. I eat it right up! I love all the sayings we come up with for Hosea calling Arthur dumb like, "you were always a few branches short of a tree, weren't you?" LMAO so good.

You write his oblivion so well. You could give that man all the signs, and you'd have to read them aloud for him to understand. But when he did...ugh, so passionate, yet babbling away like he would. The dynamic with reader having grown up with Arthur is so interesting too. I feel like I don't see much of that.

You brilliantly captured his stubbornness, his yearning to be loved, and his bleeding heart. This was a wonderful read, Kat. I can't wait to read more of your work!

❛ i burn for you ❜

note: hope you enjoy anon! this is the longest imagine i've written to date!

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Arthur Morgan was many things: outlaw, gunslinger, collector of cigarette cards (since he learned from a man he met at the train station that a full set is worth money) - but he was also a fool, especially when it came to women.

The day he read that damn letter, eyes greedily drinking in the cursive writing and the faint scent of a sweet perfume he hadn't forgotten, he went running with his tail tucked between his legs. He was being played like a damn fiddle, he knew that, especially when she asked him to help her with her brother. All these years and she only gets in contact when she needs a favour and a fool like him to do it for her.

But seeing her again ... damn, if it didn't bring up a lot of feelings he'd tried to forget. Memories of happier days, of a love he once thought would burn bright and bold for a long time.

So, like the goddamn fool he is, he helps her. Rescues her younger brother from a strange cult in the mountains worshipping turtles. Brings him back to her. Drinks up her praise, her gratitude. Watches her board the train and continues watching until it's out of sight.

When he returns back to camp that evening, he notices your foul mood. Usually you'd greet him as you always did, a smile on your lips that gave him a strange, warm feeling inside - but this time, you didn't even look at him, face stoic.

What the outlaw didn't know was that when he'd read that letter that came for him and then taken off like a bat out of hell on his horse, you'd followed him, curious to see where he was heading to so eagerly.

You stayed a good distance back while he rode to a big house just outside Valentine, used your binoculars to see more clearly as he dismounts his horse, walks up the steps of the porch and knocks on the door. When the door opens, your heart drops.

It's her.

Goddamn Mary Gillis - well, Linton now, since she'd married a good few years ago. Regardless of her surname, she was still as pretty as a picture, and clearly, she still had a hold on Arthur's heart all these years later.

It stung, more than you'd care to admit. These past few months, before Horseshoe Overlook and Colter, before even the mess in Blackwater, you'd begun to notice a shift in your relationship with Arthur. You'd always been fairly close, having grown up together and taught by Hosea and Dutch, but the past few months ... something had changed. You aren't sure how or when but it had.

And now here he was, his hat in his hands as he stared starry-eyed at another woman, his old flame.

A sickly feeling rises within and you decide you can't watch anymore. Pushing your binoculars back into your satchel, you swing up on your horse and head back to camp with a heavy heart and tears in your eyes.

"Everythin' alright?" He asks uncertainly, concern in his eyes.

You still don't look at him, head down and eyes trained on your rifle as you smear gun oil over it to clean it. "Sure."

Arthur frowns, unconvinced. "Don't seem that way."

An exasperated sigh leaves you. "I'm fine, Arthur. Just not in the mood to talk."

Well then. He decides it's best to leave you to your own devices and turns, heading to his tent, bewildered by your frostiness.

It wasn't like you to be so cool with anyone, let alone him. The two of you had known each other since you were kids, grew up being taught how to read by Hosea and how to fire a gun by Dutch. There wasn't much you didn't tell each other.

And he'd lying if he said he hadn't felt a change between you lately. There was a warmth that bloomed in his chest when he saw you, a rush of air that left his lungs as you smiled at him. He'd spent countless hours sneakily observing you as he tried his best to sketch your likeness into his journal; the slope of your nose, the fullness of your lips, the gleam in your eyes, the light dusting of freckles across your cheeks and nose.

Every day he discovered something new about you he wanted to draw and soon he'd had to get himself a new journal, the previous one filled with pages upon pages of carefully drawn pictures of you.

Arthur didn't know what to make of these new feelings, didn't know what to do with them - so he buried them deep down, tried his best to ignore them and pretend they weren't there.

Acting on them was out of the question for two reasons: one, he was utterly hopeless when it came to women, and two, you were his closest and oldest friend which meant you were strictly off limits. He couldn't bare to lose you, not after everything you'd been through together.

You'd patched up his wounds from countless shoot-outs, helped him back to camp when he'd gotten so drunk he could barely see straight, sewn his favourite jacket when he complained about rips and tears in it. And after the death of his son ... you'd been there to pick up the pieces of his broken heart, seen him at his lowest and still stayed by his side.

Risking such a precious friendship he'd come to cherish was unthinkable. A life without you made less sense than Uncle pulling his weight and helping out around the camp instead of complaining about his 'lumbago'.

Days pass. The air grows a little warmer and the sun burns a little hotter with the coming of summer. The heat isn't the only thing that grates on Arthur's nerves.

You still hadn't spoken more than two words to him. When he'd tried to approach you and speak to you, you'd make some half-assed excuse about needing to go into town for a few supplies or going to collect a debt for Strauss and quickly left. You flitted around so much, in and out of camp, you were little more than a blur these days.

Arthur had had enough. He was tired of your strange attitude and quite frankly, if you didn't want to talk about whatever the hell was going on with you, too bad. Underneath the annoyance and frustration, there was concern. He didn't understand why you were behaving so unusually, why you seemed to be avoiding him.

He'd noticed you talking to other members of the gang just fine, joking and laughing as you often did - so why was it just him you seemed to be so frosty with?

One day, after another cold dismissal, Arthur's temper reaches a boiling point.

"Wha' the hells your goddamn problem, huh?"

You turn to look at him, eyes narrowing in defensiveness at his outburst. "Excuse me?"

He knows he should back off and calm down, he's far too worked up to speak rationally, but he's sick and tired of feeling like his closest friend has become a stranger. He misses you, damn it.

"You heard me. What's going on with you? Why're you avoidin' me?"

You scoff, trying to play it cool. "I ain't avoidin' anyone. You're delusional."

He returns your scoff with a bitter chuckle. "Oh, really? That why you scurry away like a goddamn rabbit whenever I try to talk to you?"

Heat burns in your cheeks. "I do not scurry."

"Well, ya sure seem to move pretty goddamn fast when ya see me comin'." He takes a step closer, face drawn in a tight glare. "So spit it out. What's goin' on with you? And don't you even try to deny it."

"How's Mary?" You ask suddenly, voice laced with venom and eyes sharp as Javier's knives.

The question throws him for a loop, his anger momentarily disappearing as shock registers. "Mary? The hell's she got to do with anythin'?"

"Oh, please," you roll yours eyes irritatedly, crossing your arms over your chest. "I saw you running off into town that day you got her letter. Saw you talkin' to her, lookin' like a lovesick fool. Did you forget how she broke your heart? How you weren't good enough for her? Or were you just thinkin' with your dick?"

Your words cut deep and fuel his anger even more. "You followin' me now?"

Ignoring his accusation, you press on, anger burning hot and bright inside your chest. "After everything that damn woman put you through, after the way her family looked down on you, after she rejected you because you weren't good enough, why in the hell would you go and help her?"

"What the hell has this got to do with why you've been avoidin' me?" He demands furiously.

You want to slap yourself in the face - and then him, and then Mary for good measure and because you're feeling a little petty.

How could this man be so oblivious and hopelessly clueless?

It was right there; you'd practically spelled it out for him and he still pretended like he couldn't read the words your heart had written for him.

Or maybe, he didn't want to. Maybe he didn't want to see how you felt for him because he didn't feel the same. Maybe he was still desperately in love with Mary after all these years and you'd imagined the closeness between you these last few months, foolishly deluding yourself into believing there'd been a spark.

From the way he was looking at you, angry and confused and so oblivious, you could only assume he hadn't felt the same heat from the embers you'd been nurturing inside longer than you'd care to admit.

So you swallow your anger, your hurt, your love. It's bitter and difficult, like trying to chew down Pearson's gristly stew, but you do it.

"Nothin'. It's got absolutely nothin' to do with it."

If the situation was different, you might have laughed at the absolutely bewildered look on the man's face.

But it wasn't.

And you didn't.

Instead, you did what you do best lately: you turn and walk away.

Days bleed into weeks and weeks into months. After robbing the bank in Valentine, you flee once more, packing up the camp and settling into a derelict mansion south of a town called Rhodes. Shady Belle, is the name of the new campsite.

Down here so close to the swamps, the air is much more humid and heavy, weighing down on everyone and clinging to them. The heat is almost unbearable, and everyone dresses in lighter layers to try and alleviate their overheated bodies from the warmer temperatures.

You hadn't spoken to Arthur in quite a while. Well, nothing more than a few words here and there when absolutely necessary, like for a robbery or when someone in camp said to tell him they were looking for him. Other than that, nothing. There'd been a large fracture between you, one that didn't go unnoticed by knowing eyes.

Having raised the two of you from young teenagers to hardened adults, Hosea could see from a mile off that something had happened.

Late one evening, when most everyone else had retired to their tents for the night, Hosea finds Arthur by the docks, a small lantern perched on an old crate illuminating his figure and the ever permanent scowl on his face these days.

"You know," the older man begins as he comes to stand beside Arthur. "When Bessie and I would get into a fight, she'd ignore me for days unless I apologised. Longest we went without talking was a week. Worst one of my life."

Arthur's surprised to see his older mentor up so late, but he doesn't show it, too confused by the meaning behind his seemingly random reminiscing. "Okay..?"

Hosea looses a tired sigh. "My dear boy, you were always a few branches short of a tree, weren't you?"

The outlaw scoffs. "You callin' me dumb, old man?"

"I'm simply saying that there was a time when I thought it was worth being right over being happy and I soon learned I was very wrong."

"I still don't know where you're goin' with this."

"Whatever you did or said, just apologise to her."

Arthur's face hardens as he realises now what Hosea's been getting at, the sly bastard. "I ain't got nothin' to apologise for."

"That hardly matters. You're upset, she's upset. The simple solution is to swallow your pride and say you're sorry."

"I didn't do nothin' to say sorry for!"

"You'll forgive me if I find that a little hard to believe, what with the way you two have been acting as of late."

"She jus' started freezin' me out and then one day she chews me out for goin' to help Mary out-"

"Ah." Hosea eyes gleam with a knowing glint as he begins to smile. "I see."

"See what?"

"She's hurt."

"Hurt? Why in the hell would she be-"

Oh.

Oh.

Hosea says nothing as the realisation slams into Arthur, leaving him winded and reeling.

How did he not see it sooner? You were hurt. Upset. Because he'd gone to see Mary, his past love. Which meant that you ...

Arthur turns on his heel and marches toward your tent, faintly registering a call of 'good luck!' from Hosea.

He hopes that you're still awake and he isn't sure if he's more relieved or nervous when he sees light illuminating from within the canvas. He pauses outside, hesitant and second guessing himself. What if he got it wrong? What if you didn't actually have feelings for him? What if he's being delusional and wanting to believe you do have feelings for him because he has them for you too?

It had taken him so long to get to this point, to admit to himself he cared about you more than just a friend. To admit that he loved you. And now there was a possibility you might just feel the same.

A combination of the heat and nerves made his throat dry, his hands growing clammy. He was frozen in place, staring at the canvas, thinking that if anyone walked by and saw him they'd scold him for being a pervert, but he -

The canvas parted and your face appeared, sending his heart racing even faster. You appeared just as surprised as he felt, eyes widening at the sight of him stood outside your tent. "Arthur? What the hell are you-"

Before you can even finish your question, he surges forward, leaning down to cup your face as his lips capture yours in a searing kiss that steals your breath and sends a jolt of heat straight to your core. His mouth is hungry, insatiable as he devours you, tongue sliding into your mouth and caressing yours. It's like he's a man dying of thirst and he's just gotten his first drink of water in years.

When you both break away, panting and breathing heavily, lips swollen and faces flushed, there's no denying the palpable heat between you now, the roaring inferno too loud to silence or ignore.

"I'm sorry," Arthur rasps lowly, voice husky. "I should've - I didn' - she's not-" He takes a moment to catch his breath and gather his thoughts before trying again. "I did love Mary but that was a long time ago. I helped her because it was the right thing to do, not because I still had feelings for her. You... you've had my heart for a long time now, darlin'. Youre in my goddamn veins, you're - you're everythin'."

Your heart stutters at his heartfelt confession, tears springing to your eyes. You'd been waiting a long time to hear those words, so long that you'd become convinced you never would but now -

His hands are still cupping your face, calloused thumbs gently stroking across your skin as his eyes search yours, desperate and wanting. "I should'a said it a long time ago, I was a fool, a goddamn fool, but I love ya, darlin'. I think maybe I always have."

There it is.

You swallow the lump in your throat, your heart overflowing as you struggle to choke out the words you want to say. "I love you too, Arthur. I love you so much it hurts -"

Nothing else needs to be said, no further words necessary as he kisses you once more, further igniting the smoldering heat between you that had been burning for years, slowly growing from flickering embers to this.

And nothing, or no one, would ever extinguish it.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━���━━━━━━━━

[zae-heeyyy]

Recalcitrance

Summary: You and Ms. Grimshaw just can't get along. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Word Count: 1,763 Tags: fluff, kissing, high honor Arthur Warnings: camp violence, angry Arthur, suggestive themes

a/n: I have mixed feelings about Grimshaw. I think she's a very enigmatic character. Still, based on interactions I've seen with her, I feel this isn't too far off. These always end up super long for some reason. Idk how that keeps happening. Anyway, I hope you enjoy; thanks for reading!

recalcitrance: resistance to authority or guidance, often characterized by defiance or disobedience. It implies a refusal to comply with rules or expectations, despite attempts to persuade or control.

You and Abigail Roberts went way, way back. Working girls stuck to a code; part of that code was looking out for each other and ensuring you returned after one of your "shifts." Abigail ran away for a while, leaving you to assume she'd met a rich man and settled down.

When you met her again, she introduced you to Dutch Van Der Linde and company; you fell in with them shortly after. Since then, you constantly scrubbed blood from clothes, slept on the ground, and ate whatever game Pearson could find for the stew. Many girls you knew would never trade that life for this one, but you had a family to return to, even if they weren't the most conventional. And amidst it all, you'd found something you didn't think possible for you. 

You were drawn to Arthur Morgan instantly. The little things spoke volumes for you—how he checked on you in passing, the moments spent playing dominos together, and his overall politeness towards you. The bar was in hell, but he treated you so differently than any man ever had. Arthur's dumb cowboy act didn't fool you for a second, and you were captivated by him.

After one too many inadvertent shoulder grazes and incidental hand touches, the chemistry between you had become undeniable. Following a game of dominos he let you win, the stocky man asked you to take a walk with him. You weren't too far away from camp before you found yourself pressed against a tree by him in a heated kiss. So many thoughts swirled around your head. You were in the middle of nowhere; it was pitch black, and you were being hunted by the law, yet there against that tree was the safest you'd felt in a long time. 

Then, on another fateful night, you were alone with him at the campfire while everybody else had settled down. A sly smirk crossed his face, and he scooted closer to you, grabbing and kissing your hand. You giggled, maintaining eye contact as he kissed up your arm, gradually, a low groan escaping him. One thing led to another, and he guided you into his tent. You let him have you, and you, him. 

It was then, when you were on the brink of your climax, half-lidded eyes staring upward into his, that you finally understood what people meant by lovemaking. When it was all over, you got up to leave out of habit, but he drew you back into his arms and asked you to stay.

Since then, you've been his girl, and he made sure everybody knew, always kissing you before he left for a job, settling you into his lap at the poker table, or sneaking you away from your chores to spend time with him. You saw each other for what you were, not the labels that had been applied to you. And you loved him so much.

For the first time in a long time, your life was good. Well, mostly, except you hadn't quite mastered the life of navigating Ms. Grimshaw. Over the almost year you'd known her, she was rarely nice to you. She seemed more tame when Arthur was around, but he wasn't today.

By noon, you had gotten sick of hearing her voice, and she seemed more ornery than usual. The nagging was constant: do this, don't do that, do this faster, do this slower. You wished she'd shut the hell up and leave you alone. Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse, you saw her speed-walking towards you.

You were sitting, about to light a cigarette, when she approached, red-faced, huffing, and talking fast, "There you are," she started, putting a finger in your face. "Sitting around like always. I have had it with you!" You stood quickly out of instinct and opened your mouth to speak, but she cut you off. "You're useless around here, so why don't you go into town and start selling yourself again. At least then you'd finally be carrying your weight!" 

Her words stung like branding, making your heart race and your eyes sting. The few people left at camp had gone quiet. Mary-Beth looked on nervously while Karen was glaring at the older woman. Your heart pounded in your ears, and you spoke faster than your brain could process.

"All you're good for is being an ugly, hateful bitch." As soon as the words left your mouth, she swung on you. It was a backhanded slap that stung and broke the barrier that was holding back your tears. You recoiled, holding your stinging face.

"Know your place, girl, before you end up somewhere worse than on your back. Now get!" She pointed towards the edge of camp.

"Screw you," you said, quickly wiping away a falling tear, "I'd rather fuck every man in town before I keep letting myself be treated like this." You stepped up to her, " Want me to leave? Well, I'm goin."

And you did. You collected what little belongings you had into a bag and charged out of camp, eyes forward and your head held high. Tilly and Mary-Beth tried to stop you, but you marched down the dirt path until they couldn't see you anymore.

"Look what you gone and did you old hag," Karen spat, "Oh, just wait til Mr. Morgan gets back. Bet you won't be so high and mighty then." 

Arthur didn't ride in until sunset; he searched for you before even getting off his horse. His face fell confused by your absence, and just as he was about to inquire, Mary-Beth and Tilly approached. He knew instantly that something was wrong.

"What, what is it?" His eyes searched theirs. They looked at each other, silently debating who'd break the news to him. It was Tilly who stepped forward, putting a calming hand on Arthur's arm. She talked low and cautious, "Arthur, she—her and Ms. Grimshaw—they—" She was cut off by Karen and Ms. Grimshaw beelining towards them.

Karen's voice boomed, speech slurred. "Go ahead, tell 'em." She waved her beer-clutching hand between Arthur and Ms. Grimshaw, defiantly meeting Susan's gaze before tearing her eyes away to meet Arthur's. "That wench Grimshaw smacked her across the face and ran her out!"

Clenching his fist involuntarily, he leaned into Karen, talking low and steady. "The hell are you talking 'bout?" His chest was rising and falling quickly now.

Ms. Grimshaw stood resolute and waved him off. "This doesn't concern you, Mr. Morgan. This is my camp, and these are my girls and my rules," she finished, arms crossed, staring at Arthur.

Stepping close, he imposed his broad figure on Ms. Grimshaw, flashing a smile that was anything but inviting. He took on a tone he rarely used with the women.

"Oh, Susan, that's where me and you disagree. This may very well be your camp, and you can make up all the rules you want, but she's my girl." His face had straightened into a scowl by the time he finished.

"Well, I'll—" she began incredulously, hands still on her hips, but Arthur threw up a halting finger.

"Look, Ms. Grimshaw, I respect how you run this camp, but that girl, she's off limits. Now, I'm gonna find her and bring her back, and you can raise all the hell you want, but if you lay a finger on her again—" 

"Arthur..." Tilly cut in warningly. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned away, ending his conversation with Susan. "Where'd she go?" he asked no one and everyone at the same time, speed walking to his horse.

"She took off down the road," Mary-Beth called out, but his horse was already kicking up dirt. Riding as fast as he could, he reached the nearest town at record speed. He hitched the horse outside the train station, forcing the doors open with his shoulder. The place went quiet, everybody focusing on the sudden disturbance. Arthur ignored the looks he was getting, scanning faces for yours. Spotting you took no time, and you stood as soon as you recognized him. He rushed to you, taking your hands in his; concern riddled his face— a rare sight. Guilt washed over you as you looked up into his eyes; you opened your mouth to speak, but he started before you.

"You alright?" he asked, looking you up and down. Dirt had stained the hem of your skirt, and your eyes were tired; his frown grew as he looked you over. You wrapped your arms around him, pressing your head to his chest and nodding.

"Wasn't gonna go, just needed to get away for a while," you murmured into his chest. Rubbing your back soothingly, he exhaled with soft, relieved laughter. One arm still around you, he gently tilted your head to meet his gaze with his free one.

"Don't you go walking out on us. Least without tellin' me first."

You agreed with a quick bob of your head, and he pulled your chin in towards his, kissing you on the mouth. He withdrew and gestured to the bench you'd risen from earlier; you both sat. Arthur wrapped a big arm around you, and you buried your face into his shoulder.

"That woman hates me," you grumbled with a pout. Arthur squeezed you closer, and a faint grin formed on his lips.

"Nah, she never liked any girl I brought around. Give her more time." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "It's all outta love, I think," he concluded. You huffed at that, disbelieving.

"She got a funny way of showing it."

"Sure," he chuckled again. He sat for another minute before gently nudging you off his shoulder. Grabbing your bag and standing, he asked, "So you gonna come back with me?"

You tried to sulk but couldn't when he was standing there waiting patiently with his hand out. You finally relented. 

"Fine, but I ain't just gonna take it next time," you declared, taking his hand. A big smile stretched across his face. 

"You ain't gotta do nothing you don't wanna. If any of those fools have a problem with it, send 'em to me." You made your way out of the train station, hand in hand. You paused, gazing at him with a quirked eyebrow.

"I can handle myself just fine, Arthur Morgan." Another chuckle built up in him as he threw your bag on the horse. He turned to kiss the top of your head before grabbing you by the waist and lifting you up on the horse.

"I know, darlin'."

[istayniche]

𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔡𝔬𝔪 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔑𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱

Act 3

Chapters 26 - 32

MASTERPOST HERE

Chapter 26

Odette, Arthur, and John work hard to bring Cécile back to the land of the living. Arthur makes a promise he hopes he can keep.

Chapter 27

The people of Saint Denis have chosen their monarch of the city's underbelly.

Chapter 28

Cécile convinces John to turn back to safety. Odette asks a request of Arthur.

Chapter 29

Arthur, Cécile, and Odette face the Count.

Chapter 30

Odette frees herself from the Count once and for all.

Chapter 31

John waits impatiently for the group to return. Celebrations ensue. Arthur and Odette have other plans.

Chapter 32

Life carries on.

[simp-ly-writes]

The Comment's Section (pt.9)

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Pairing: Spencer Agnew x gn!Reader

─ · · SUMMARY: From less like friends (or well still friends) and more like lovers. You and Spencer are riding the wave of having a somewhat public relationship as you announce your newest project!

─ · · TAGS: gender-neutral pronouns, slowburn, fluff, light angst, cheesiness, friends that act like lovers, friends to lovers, mutual pining, attempt at humour, social media au.

─ · · MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | PART SEVEN | PART EIGHT | PART TEN

─ · · A/N: super long update before the last one!!

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🔔 Netflix just posted! Check it out.

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Netflix Get ready to be lassoed into a new series only available on Netflix Fall 2026!

Watch as your favourite stars Tom Hardy, Maya Hawke, and Owen Wilson all take roles within the wild west and star within the live reimagining of the critically acclaimed game, Red Dead Redemption. With co-stars (first/name) (last/name) and Ella Purnell also stepping into the action.

The only question left is will you also be saddling-up for the adventure of a lifetime?

View all 14,998 comments

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🔔 (name)s_username just posted!

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(name)s_username Yeehaw Motherfuckers.

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🔔 (name)s_username, just added to their story, check it out!

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🔔 spennser, just added to their story, check it out!

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🔔 HollywoodNow just posted! check it out?

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HollywoodNow From cosy mystery partner to mysetry no more! Insider sources have revealed that (first/name) (last/name) is officially off the market ahead of their role in the new cowboy themed Netflix series: Red Dead Redemption. As confirmed by posts on theirs separate social media accounts, (name)'s romantic partner Spencer Agnew seems to be confirmed by a soft launch after years of dating allegations.

Are you happy with this new (but old) couple? Or do you think (name) was better off with one of their co-stars? Let us know down in the comments section below! 👇

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username01 feels surreal, I don't know what to believe anymore even when there is actual admitted to, photo evidence.

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(first/name) (last/name) @ (name)s_username · just now So... am I trending for hate again or??? 👀 Comment | Retweet | Like | Bookmark

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Spencer Agnew @ spennser · just now SOMEONE HAVE A SMOSH BABY NOW! I WANT TO EAT PIZZA IN PEACE PLEASE 🙏 /sarcasm (with a degree of not being sarcastic but really serious please.) Comment | Retweet | Like | Bookmark

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Hollywood Now @ hollywood_now · just now (Name) and Spencer, a new couple just seen eating out together at a pizzeria. Date night perhaps? Comment | Retweet | Like | Bookmark

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username44 @ username44 · just now Anyone else realizing this is why (yourshipname) kept things under wraps for so long? Like let people eat, man! Comment | Retweet | Like | Bookmark

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(first/name) (last/name) @ (name)s_username · just now so... looks like we're ordering in from now on! 😳 Comment | Retweet | Like | Bookmark

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username31 @ username31 · just now Kinda adorable how (name) does not realize they are kinda really famous now lol

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Some time later...

🔔 (name)_undercover just posted!

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Liked by co_mill, spennser, phatchance, and others

(name)_undercover Mental Health Check-In #51:

Super proud of myself for remember not to water the plants from overwatering them last week! 😬 Decided to pick up Red Dead Redemption again- but the online version! Me and Spencer have been playing it every night together 💕

Also started a new DnD campaign with the Smosh crew on the weekends! It's been great reconnecting with everyone after a break and I'm excited to see where things go. I'm playing as a teifling warlock-bard!

Next Update: ???

comments are limited

spennser I still don't know how you got that combination to work so well together...

↳ (name)s_username what can I say? you're seeing a magician at work 😘

co_mill you two are such cuties! 💕

phatchance I still don't know how you killed that cactus... like boy/girl its a cactus???

↳ (name)s_username I don't know either!!! 😭

anthonypadilla proud of you!

↳ (name)s_username thanks internet dad!

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🔔 (name)s_username, just added to their story, check it out!

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🔔 spennser, just added to their story, check it out!

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🔔 (name)_undercover just posted!

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Liked by co_mill, spennser, phatchance, and others

(name)_undercover Mental Health Check-In #52:

Moved to a new place with Spenncer! So great to have a home to finally call my own- entirely! No more leaky faucets or patchy drywall. Just nice space for us to spread out all our collectibles lol. 😊

Next Update: ???

comments are limited

spennser and they were roomates...

angelagiovanagiarratana in love with the new place! let me know when you're done with it- I want to COOK in your kitchen!

↳ (name)s_username just make sure not to burn the whole house down! 😂 ↳ angelagiovanagiarratana AYE! 👺 I will not!

shayne_topp dang, gotta tell court we need to step our decorating skills up!

tomeybones who's dog?

↳ (name)s_username the neighbours! somehow slipped underneath our fence!

filmingamanda if you still need help unpacking, shoot me a text!

↳ (name)s_username will do! 🫡

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─ · · A/N: likes, comments, and reblogs are all appreciated and encouraged!

─ · · SPENCER AGNEW TAGLIST: @lisiliely @missflufffanfics @little-stitious-studios @thejourneyneverendsx @sibsteria @lizzylynch1 @babble2 @delaneyburghardt @thevintagefangirl @uniquely-haunting @maricarorp @sarahskywalker-amidala @laurasdrey

[thusspoketrish]

Hiya, I'm Trish! Below you'll find a list of my completed Drarry fics + a gist of the story + a handful of tags. All of my stories are postwar, EWE, and rated E or M. I will update this list as I complete more stories! Wooo!!!

MOST RECENT FIC:

Netflix and Chills | E | 20K Halloween might be over, but the tricks, treats, and heat between the sheets are just beginning for our favorite dynamic duo! Humor. Post-Second Wizarding War. EWE. Drarry in the Muggle World. Established Relationship. Snarky Draco Malfoy. Muggle Technology. Slice of Life. Humor. Romance. Domestic Fluff. Pop Culture References. Shenanigans. Halloween Night. Netflix and Chill. Banter. Mystery. Idiots in Love. Light Dom/Sub Elements. Dirty Talk. Blue Ball Hell.

Summary: When Draco innocently asks what "Netflix and Chill" means, Harry simply can't pass up the opportunity to impart some knowledge while demonstrating a masterclass in the art of seduction. Now, if only those plans weren't constantly interrupted by trick-or-treaters—some of them far more trick than treat.

The Art of Getting By | E | 149K Recovery fic set in a psychiatric hospital. Mental health Issues. Trauma/Traumatic Experiences. Heavy Angst. Harry and Draco admitted to a psychiatric hospital. Therapy. Fastburn. Co-dependency. Falling in love. Draco's + Harry's POV. Please read warnings. Dead Dove.

This Year's Love| E | 84K. A Drarry slowburn inspired by When Harry Met Sally! Humor. Light Angst. Draco in the Muggle world. Lovable Disaster!Harry. Enemies to Best Friends. Modern Dating. Layabout!Harry. Medical Student!Draco. Draco Dates Zaddies. Harry Is Living His Best Heaux Life. Sex (or no sex!) Positivity. Idiots In Love. So Much Pining. Harry's POV.

Everything That Happens Is From Now On | E | 42K. A sensitive story that explores the aftermath and recovery from a stranger SA. Established relationship. Secrets. Supportive/Loving Partner. RTS. Living Together. Body Positivity. Enthusiastic Consent. Hope. Draco's POV. Please read warnings.

Lemon Colour, Honey Glow | E | 67K. A love story that takes place over a series of unfortunate nights at the Leaky Cauldron. Enemies to Lovers. Falling in Love. Auror!Harry. Potion Master!Draco. Secret Relationship. Emotional Hurt/Comfort. Possessive Harry. Flangst. Beer Gardens. The Leaky Cauldron. The Slytherin Trio. Bullying/Violence. Spoilers Left Untagged.

Super Rich Kids | E | 81K. True crime meets wild government conspiracies when Draco becomes a twisted sort-of Robin Hood, robbing the badly behaving rich to give to...well...you'll have to read the story to find out! Angst. Murders. Coverups. Enemies to Friends to Lovers. Bisexual Draco. Lush descriptions of glamour. Humor. The ULTIMATE Slytherin ensemble. Mental Health Issues. Drug Usage/Addiction. Pureblood Elitism. Social Season. Angst with a Happy Ending. Draco's POV.

On The Last Day | E | 53K. Draco's role as an Unspeakable, Harry's untimely death and ghostly return, and conspiracies bind them in a quest for truth and redemption. Mystery. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Grief/Mourning. Horror Elements. Science. Neurology/Neuroscience. Slowburn. Memory Loss. Draco's POV.

My Best Friend, the Serial Killer | E | 37K. Ride or Die BFFL Draco finds he's tired of moonlighting as a serial killer's accomplice. No matter how much he loves Pansy, he draws the line at helping her dispose of a sexy, flirty Harry Potter. Dark Humor. Campy/Kitsch Elements. Serial Killer!Pansy. Healer!Draco. Femme Fatale Trope. Falling in Love. Self-Love. Jealousy. Everyone is seriously morally grey. Draco's POV.

A Ferret, a ScarHead, a Weasel, & a Baby | E | 91K. The ultimate bromance takes centre stage (alongside a sweet and tender Drarry romance) in this Three Men & a Baby inspired story! BAMF Auror Draco. Protective Draco. Healer Harry. Capable and Emotionally Intelligent Ron. Illegal Potions Ring. Orphaned Baby. Roommates. Nothing to Something to Everything. Draco's POV.

Seven Days | E | 8K. It takes seven days for the Malfoy-Potter family to unravel. Grief/Mourning. Child Abduction. Death of a Child. Implied Mpreg. Alcohol Relapse. Coming to Terms. Harry's POV. Please Read the Warnings.

Portrait of a Young Girl | M | 8K. Navigating the complexities of love, marriage, and child-rearing, Harry and Draco face a new challenge when they suspect that four-year-old Teddy might be transgender. Married Drarry. Young Couple. Inexperienced Parents. Marital Problems/Disagreements. Stay-at-Home Dad Draco. Fluff. Acceptance. Love. Family. Happy Ending. Harry's POV.

A Day at the Park | M | 6K. Draco discovers that love has its own timing, and sometimes, that means returning to the place where he once lost it all. Estranged couple. Flashbacks. Pining. Postman's Park. Exiled Draco. Draco's POV.

Long for Bliss! | E | 9K. A random night out takes a dark and thrilling turn when Harry, after taking MDMA, encounters Draco Malfoy, looking like something straight out of his wildest dreams – or nightmares. First Time Drug Use. Nightclubs. The Perils of Ennui. Mildly Dubious Consent. Rooftop Sex. Light Dom/Sub Elements. Harry's POV.

Idiot Boys In Love & More | Various Ratings | 18K. Here you'll find a collection of one-shots, drabbles, and poems about Harry and Draco that are all standalone pieces! Each story is centered on a prompt provided by @drarrymicrofic and said prompt will be listed in the summary of each story (Series I completed). Harry + Draco's POV.

[immajustvibehere]

Amidst a Crashing World (1/5)

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader

summary: You had left the gang about a year ago. There were many reasons as to why, but that you had received a rather gruff rejection from the man you loved was definitely on that list. Now, Arthur appears in front of your little cabin with an interesting demand.

tags for this series: fluff, little bit of angst, no-tb-Arthur, literally your love redemption, maybe smut (but probably not), slow burn (but I mean how slow can a story really burn in five chapters?)

Link to my Masterlist

1600 words, less than 10 minutes reading time

It had been a year since you had last seen him. He was one of the reasons why you had decided to leave the gang. Because it had become unbearable to be around the man you had feelings for. The man you had confessed those feelings to and the man who had rejected you. It had been an uncomfortable moment, to say the least. Dutch had been talking about a bigger score for a while now and the mission had only been a few days away. You had approached Arthur who had been seated near a campfire with Hosea and Reverend, deep in a seemingly serious but one-sided conversation.

"May I talk to you for a moment?", you had pleaded. Your hands had been shaking. You had been aware: every score the boys went on held the possibility of never seeing them again. And you had felt brave that day. Brave enough to finally confess that you had feelings for this man. He was kind enough and caring towards you. He never was someone to express affection too openly so you hoped...that even if he did not feel entirely the same, he might be open to get to know you better and give you a chance.

"Sure", Arthur had grunted, a little groggily and stood up. You had walked a few steps away from Reverend and Hosea, just far enough to make give them the impression that this was supposed to be a private conversation. Quickly, but precisely and not without a certain shake in your voice, you let Arthur know that you liked him. More than the normal amount at least.

You peaked through your curtains to watch this very man dismount from his horse and caringly fix its reins next to the one of your horse, which was barely acknowledging the visitor.

For a moment, Arthur had just stared. Then he had shifted awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck with a warm but stifled chuckle escaping his throat.

"Yer joking, aren't ya?", he mumbled as he nervously peeked back to Hosea and Reverend, who hadn’t exactly given you attention during this ordeal. When Arthur had caught your dead-serious face and how you swallowed after he had said those words, he knew that you, in fact, hadn’t been joking.

"I- ehr...I don't see ya like that, I'm sorry", he had stumbled over his words. His voice hadn’t been upbeat or hopeful, not even apologetic or friendly. No, the longer you had turned those words over in your mind afterwards, you heard how bitter, how disappointed, and somewhat accusatory he sounded. He had turned around and had walked back to his log, shaking his head, chuckling coldly.

Arthur's hand plunged into his jacket, and he pulled out a wrinkly, yellowy paper that he unfolded. As he held the paper in one hand, a grin flitted across his face, before he took a breath and started loudly:

"I'm looking for the fierce, the ferocious....", Arthur stopped and plucked a ripe tomato from its stem. You had been growing this beautiful tomato plant right next to the gate that separated your garden from the path that travellers commonly used. But Arthur was the first one who had the audacity to help himself. Then he went on: "The downright awful degenerate y/n. Supposedly, she robbed a stagecoach and left the driver in a condition that left much to desire...She has fled to find refuge from her abhorrent, ginormous bounty of 15 proud dollars!"

Arthur had a shit-eating big grin on his face when you finally pushed the door to your little cabin open. He popped the tomato into his mouth, savouring the taste as he watched you step into the light and lean against the door frame.  

"That you?", Arthur asked indistinctly with his mouth full, quick to catch some tomato juice with his sleeve as it escaped the corner of his mouth. He held up the bounty poster that showed the most unflattering sketch of your features that you had ever seen.

"I look myself in the mirror quite often, but I've never seen this creature staring back", you joked as you nodded at the sketch. You were still unsure what his sudden appearance at your doorstep was supposed to mean.

Arthur shrugged and sarcastically answered: "I really think they did ya justice. Have you seen the pictures going round of me?"

You had. They weren't nearly as bad as the one he held up of you. But they did paint him more cruel than he looked right now. Honestly, knowing him better, all you can see is an actually soft man which might look big and scary when he swings his gun around, but now, as he took his hat off, he looked harmless. The afternoon sun nearly blinded him as he looked at you, but he deemed the gesture necessary to be polite, apparently.

"Yer trying to take me in for a 15 dollar bounty?", you asked and crossed your arms.

"Don't want'a sound rude but that's barely worth it...", Arthur smiled, "No I ehrm...was close by. A farmer down that way told me you was living here. I helped him fix a wheel on his waggon."

"Sure...", you mumbled suspiciously. There was no way you would have naturally come up in this conversation.

"'s been a while...", Arthur commented.

"Yeah. More than a year. Took me this long to figure out how it'd bear fruit", you pointed at the tomato plant Arthur had stolen from.

Shamelessly, he plugged another one and ate it, "They're good."

"I know", you sighed. You had given up and moved aside to let the man into your cabin.

It was a humble little place. Just big enough to fit a table, three chairs, a bed, a stove and a cupboard. Arthur noticed the rifle that leaned next to the bed, the few books that were scattered on the table and finally his eyes fell on a couple of sketches you had pinned onto the wall. After leaving the gang, you had tried your luck with drawing. Yes, it was a way to remember Arthur, because though you haven't seen many of his drawings, you knew he sketched everything he laid his eyes on.

For a moment, you hoped that Arthur would comment on your sketches. There was one of a doe that you were particularly proud of, but Arthur just briefly scanned them before turning his attention back to you.

"Nice little cabin ya got here...killed the fella that lived in it before or...?", Arthur suggested, his eyes falling on a little hole in the roof that needed fixing and the bedframe which was uneven and brittle.

You almost laughed at the suggestion: "No. It belongs to an old lady who went to live with her sister in the city. She gave me the cabin to look out for, until her grandson is old enough to live in it."

"Oh", Arthur commented, fidgeting with his hat.

You had spent months trying to forget this man. You were sure you'd never see him again, not if you could have helped it. You were glad about leaving your affiliations with the van der Linde gang behind. However, this had never been the official deal. The deal had been that you could roam for a while, figure yourself out and then join back. You never did. And now you had a sour feeling as to why this man was currently scanning your backyard through the window.

"Why are you here?", you asked, your tone serious.

"It's good to see you again", Arthur light-heartedly said. It almost sounded like a joke.

"Arthur", you warned him.

"Lot has happened since you left...", Arthur said, still wandering around in this cabin as if he was scanning the small territory, "we lost some people in Blackwater...Mac and Davey...Jenny..."

You knew about Mac. It was reported in the newspaper, but when Arthur mentioned Jenny, your jaw dropped. You felt a sort of anger flare up. You had gotten along well with Jenny. She was a kind and funny girl and you had considered her a friend.

"How did- Why...How did this even happen?!", you grumbled, "Jenny wasn't someone who would be in the midst of a fight. Hell, she knew how to handle a gun, but-"

"I know", Arthur interrupted, "couple weeks ago we lost Sean, too."

"Why are you here, Arthur? And why are you telling me this?"

"Wanted to see how you've been doing...", he shrugged, but his demeanour changed when you opened a drawer. You didn't even need to pull out the gun before Arthur stopped with the sugarcoating.

"Dutch wants you back."

Hell, this didn't sound like a suggestion. It was more like a threat. Arthur was here to collect you. Not for a 15-dollar bounty, but for Dutch. Because he had lost too many people and now you needed to jump in. Also, every bit of hope you held close to your heart, that Arthur...that there was a tiny bit of him that wanted to see you. That he really wondered how you had been doing.

It died with those words. It stung.

"Get out", you demanded.

"Y/N-"

"Arthur, I'm not coming back."

"Dutch-"

"I don't care. I don't give a fuck what Dutch wants", you yelled, slowly pulling the gun out, "Honestly, you have some nerve showing up with this request."

Then, you had to laugh. Laugh at the absurdity of it and laugh because you were hurt. The laughter helped to supress the tears, for now.

"Ya ain't gonna shoot me, sweetheart", Arthur said knowingly, putting his hat back on and slowly backing out towards the door, arms still raised because he didn't want to give you the impression that he'd draw on you.

"Don't flatter yourself", you said, slowly walking towards him to make him move out of your house, "I wouldn't shoot your pretty face, but I can put holes in other parts of your body and it would hurt enough."

You felt bold, cocked the gun and aimed at his leg.

"Y/N..."

"Tell Dutch you didn't find me. Tell him I'm dead. Tell him I forced you to draw on me and you shot me...I honestly don't care. I'm not going back. I'm not...canon fodder for a cause I don't believe in anymore", you stated, your eyes fixed on Arthur. He might just notice that tears pricked your eyes, there was a hint of concern in his features.

When he opened his mouth, you were quick to interrupt him: "If you care for me just the tiniest fucking bit...yer gonna fuck off right now and not come back."

You thought about how he'd answer, 'I don't see ya like that', lasso you and drag you back into whatever hole the gang was hiding at the moment, but instead, he tipped his hat, turned around and mounted his horse.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Next chapter: here

I never have the nerve to keep a consistent taglist, but here are some tags for people who said they might be interested in that sort of story:

@pinkiemme @loveheartarthur @lonesome-ranger @twola @shiokitsune @hugthedragon @missredemption @kakashiislut @thewalkingdead1463

If you want to be tagged, please comment under this post if you want to be included to the taglist for this story OR any fic I post in future.

Special thanks to @little-honeypie 'cause we've been cooking that story up together <3