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pinescent-and-gingerbread · 6 days ago

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Hummmm, HELLO??? I wasn't prepared for that emotional damage!! Omfg.

First of all, the beginning was so well written and fitted the canon so well as it's Micah who comes back at camp from Guarma first. I liked those sorts of details!!

As if from a dream, a black and white Hungarian Half-breed emerged through the fog with the sunshine of your heart, Arthur Morgan, at the reins.Parts of your life flashed before your eyes in the brightest prism of colors—memories of making love under red patterned blankets, kissing alongside orange and yellow flames, dancing barefoot on soft green grass, cuddling against striped blue cotton, and prancing through fragrant fields of lavender. It all could’ve just been a figment of your imagination, but you knew it was real. You knew you were awake. You knew you were alive. And thank God, so was he.

Absolutely beautiful. I adore this metaphor of a prism and the "emerged though the fog with the sunshine of your heart". So so good. The fact that the prism litterally produce a rainbow from white light fit so well with the sunshine part. Stunning motif!!

The reunion was so heartwarming, with Arthur realizing he hadn't talked since he had stepped a foot on the continent and having his first words being Reader's name 🥹 AND THEN

[...] but her eyes weren’t on you. They were looking past your shoulder at the stranger who used to be her father. The scene unraveled like the Creation of Adam. Arthur reached out, leading with his index finger like he had since the day she was born. He cleared his throat first before speaking. “Honeybee…” But unlike the fresco, Beatrice didn’t reach back. Instead, she screamed. She screamed a terrible, gut-wrenching cry.

No.

In her young mind, someone had kidnapped her sunflower and picked his petals clean, leaving only a wilted stalk in his place. Arthur felt like a monster—like the ugliest bastard that ever lived. Before you and before Beatrice, Arthur wondered if he’d even had a heart. Now, he knew he did because it was being forcibly ripped out. His hand dropped to his side, and his face straightened into hardened lines. As his eyes lost focus, you knew he was building a fort around his heart because if he didn’t, it would shatter and never come back together again.

NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!!!!

I am not kidding Zae, call me emotional, call me weak or too sensible, but you brought actual tears to my eyes with that part. And the fact that she was one of the only thing that made him hold up while in Guarma?? fucking tracing her name on his skin?? "Thinking he’d never get to see either of you again was painful, but not being able to hold his baby girl was torture." YEAH YOU BET IT IS!!!! JUST LIKE READING IT!!! This is heartbreaking, devastating even! I knew you were talented but not such an expert in angst!! Not being able to physically take her in his arms is so painful! It breaks my heart to see him like this!

Days ago, a sea away and now only a room away, but the distance between you and Arthur still felt monumental.

Really really loved that line too. He's back, but the deep problems are still here; the comparison is flawless. The paragraph right after with the painful truths stated by Reader is so good to read too, beautifully written. Loved it (in a heartbreaking kind of way!)

And Jesus that ending. Dutch keeping on manipulating Arthur during their conversation, making him feel guilty, keeping him under his control. Argh!! Well done, because I want to slap him just as hard as I did while playing. Then the new baby announcement! In this rushed, angry kind of way, it is beautifully tragic, too. AND YOU END THIS WITH THE FIRST LETTER'S LINE??

You better be cooking a third part girl!! Else we won't ever recover I think!! Once again, bravo!! It was so intense. I don't know if I hated it or loved it, both at the same time, because it was so incredibly writing but so wrecking 😭😭 You really nailed that angst. I think it is all even more tragic and painful as I just read the first part before, and you had written so gorgeously how much Arthur meant to Beatrice, how strong their bound was; just to be shattered the moment she didn't grab his finger as she used to. It was peak scenario here.

I'm gonna need some time to recover!! Please tell me you have a little something more for them!! 😭😭

-Your Piney, comforting herself with some ice cream 😂

Aegis II

Summary: Arthur returns from Guarma Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Word Count: 2,006 Tags: family, girl dad Arthur, angst, mid-honor Arthur Warnings: Mostly angst, no happy ending

An: Part II to Aegis and another anon request to break your heart. Read at your own risk, I'm warning you.

Lakay’s spellbound energy had finally gotten to you. You could only conclude that some voodoo priestess must’ve cursed this land by punishing intruders with hallucinations of their long-lost loved ones. This hex began with the silhouette of a light-haired bearded centaur materializing down the path, torturing your soul with the crushing weight of hope. With a ghastly cackle, she revealed the beast to be Micah Bell, the antithesis of your husband. The image of him instead of Arthur tugged fiercely on your heartstrings. But maybe the priestess was merciful after all because, alongside venom and rot, he carried Arthur’s name and word of life on his tongue. Hours spent waiting felt like nothing compared to the entire lifetime you thought you’d have to endure without him.

Rain clouds washed away the color of the bayou, making everything shades of brown and gray. Half delirious from a lack of sleep, you second-guessed yourself when you heard the steady clop of hooves on dirt. As if from a dream, a black and white Hungarian Half-breed emerged through the fog with the sunshine of your heart, Arthur Morgan, at the reins. Parts of your life flashed before your eyes in the brightest prism of colors—memories of making love under red patterned blankets, kissing alongside orange and yellow flames, dancing barefoot on soft green grass, cuddling against striped blue cotton, and prancing through fragrant fields of lavender. It all could’ve just been a figment of your imagination, but you knew it was real. You knew you were awake. You knew you were alive. And thank God, so was he.

Sharp curves of his ribs dug into yours as you threw yourself into his arms, and though the weight of you was heavier than he’d remembered or perhaps he’d gotten weaker, he still held you up as you fell limp against him, your mouth open in a screaming wail, a concoction of relief, heartbreak, and joy. He realized he hadn’t spoken a word since stepping back on US soil, and he choked your name out in a stunned whisper. Though your tears were soaking through his shirt, he could relax because he was home.

Every time he repeated your name, he squeezed you tighter. The closer he brought you to him, the louder you wailed as if he were wringing out every drop of anguish that had accumulated since he’d been gone.

“I’m here, beautiful. I’m here. S’okay...S’okay….”

Lost in him, you didn’t even notice the squelch of bare feet growing closer from behind. Arthur saw her before you did, and his whole body stiffened. Relief hammered at his knees, and he couldn’t stand anymore. He didn’t want to let you go, but his grip slackened as he sank slowly to the ground. You went with him, both of you lowering yourselves to meet the tiny, fragile thing standing before you. Her eyes looked to you first, and you smiled at her, holding back more sobs.

“Look, baby. Daddy’s home.”

But she didn’t move. Smile vanishing, you rose hastily to get to her. You knew that look anywhere: fear. From her eyes, this man was just a shell of her daddy. Everything about him was wrong. Wrong length of beard, wrong, dirty clothes, wrong sunburnt skin, wrong bloodshot eyes, and wrong sunken cheeks. You’d scooped her up and moved her hair out of her face, your eyebrows scrunched together in motherly concern, but her eyes weren’t on you. They were looking past your shoulder at the stranger who used to be her father.

The scene unraveled like the Creation of Adam. Arthur reached out, leading with his index finger like he had since the day she was born. He cleared his throat first before speaking.

“Honeybee…”

But unlike the fresco, Beatrice didn’t reach back. Instead, she screamed. She screamed a terrible, gut-wrenching cry.

Beatrice Morgan, Beatrice Morgan, Beatrice Morgan, Beatrice Morgan.

At night, on Guarma, when he was trying to sleep, he’d write the letters of her name on his skin. The distant memory of her laugh was the only thing that gave him enough comfort to finally drift off. Thinking he’d never get to see either of you again was painful, but not being able to hold his baby girl was torture.

You bounced and shushed her while meeting his hollow eyes. Since before you were married, you had whole conversations with a gaze. You could compliment each other, check-in, and lust after each other through your eyes. This time, it was a silent apology as you whisked her away, walking fast towards one of the shacks. Arthur tried to follow, but now word of his return was out, and he was swallowed in the embrace and cheers of the gang. Though Beatrice had run out of tears, she didn’t let you leave her side for the rest of the day, clinging to your shirt any time you moved.

Days ago, a sea away and now only a room away, but the distance between you and Arthur still felt monumental.

Under the waves of your sorrow swam dreadful truths you couldn’t bear exposing to surface light. Truth: you’d given up on the thought of ever seeing him again. Truth: you’d mourned him—was still mourning him when he washed ashore that dirt path past dual skulls impaled on sticks. Truth and bitter shame: in a sleep-deprived haze, your patience with your daughter had been ground to a fine powder. Fed up with her anguished cries, cries for her daddy, you’d told her to hush up, that crying wouldn’t bring him back, that nothing would, because he was dead, and she screamed and screamed, and screamed until she couldn’t.

Getting her to sleep was a losing game, as always. Just as she quieted down for the night, Bill burst through the cabin, his booming voice waking her once again. Bill had barely stopped his yapping when a shout—the shouting of Death himself silenced the cabin. You threw your body over your little girl, shielding her with your life before Milton could even finish his speech. This had to be hell. Scripture that Reverend Swanson had drunkenly spewed rattled your mind as a Gatling gun wreaked havoc on the shack. Bullets and splitting wood were the furnace of fire and gnashing of teeth, and the weeping was your daughter screaming from beneath you.

The gunfire ceased, and Dutch’s voice carried through camp, but you couldn’t hear a word over your violent retching.

It was almost the crack of dawn when you’d got Beatrice to settle into a restless sleep. Arthur had been waiting close by, and you left him to have a moment with her before he followed you out onto one of the docks. He didn’t get a word in. The conversation bounced back and forth, neither of you letting the other finish.

“Arthur, you have to get us out of here. We gotta leave. Beatrice, me, you, and—”

“I gotta go get John. Me and Sadie, I can’t just leave him. Abigail, and little Jack—”

“Fine, get John, but after that—”

“After that, I gotta do something for Dutch.”

The murky water rippled as a cottonmouth water snake swam by.

“For Dutch?”

No response. Someone watching from behind would’ve thought you sobbing so hard to make your body shake, but Arthur knew better. You were laughing—laughing without an ounce of amusement.

“You know, I’ve heard a lot of foolishness from you, but after last night, after everything—you gotta do some things for Dutch?”

Arthur knew, deep down, that you were right. One day, he’d get it through his thick skull that you were always right. Today wasn’t that day, though.

“You ain’t the only one I gotta take care of,” he growled, but you barked right back.

“Now that’s one thing you got right you goddamn moron! It ain’t just me you gotta take care of.” You started counting on your fingers. “You need to get your head out of your ass and start worrying about taking care of me, Beatrice, and–” You swallowed hard, dropping your head, “And your baby.”

This wasn’t how you wanted to tell him. You wanted the next baby to be celebrated, to be thought about as a gift to the world instead of a crippling burden. When you lifted your head, sorrowful, pitiful eyes stared back at you.

His memories shuffled at full speed like a deck of cards in the hands of a Blackjack dealer. A face card fell into place, Shady Bell, then the Ace, the party. Blackjack.

Beatrice fell asleep outside, exhausted from the celebrations. Tilly offered to stay with her so Arthur didn’t have to carry her up the stairs.

You were so beautiful, laid up under him; he couldn’t help himself when he spilled inside of you. It’d only been a month and a half ago, but it seemed like a lifetime.

“Darlin,’ he started, outstretching his hand, but you couldn’t even look at him.

“Kept gettin’ sick after you went missing. Thought I was just heartbroken, but…”

He waited for you to finish, but you were tired of fighting for something that didn’t seem to matter to him anymore. You weren’t going to wait for him to find the right words, and you weren’t going to wait for him to make up his mind, so you left him with a final warning.

“I suggest you figure out where your loyalties lie, Arthur, before it’s too late.”

You could hear Susan yelling at Pearson from one of the cabins and decided going to his rescue couldn’t be worse than this. After finishing one chore and moving to the next, you stopped in your tracks. Though you couldn’t see them, their voices carried, Dutch’s more so than Arthur’s.

“Arthur, do you have my back?”

“Always Dutch, but there’s more than your back to worry about. I got a family. My wife, my little girl, and—” he paused but continued shortly after, “my wife, my little girl,” he repeated, “and a baby on the way.”

Silence, then...

“My my, how a woman we love changes us.”

“I ain’t changed, Dutch.”

Then Dutch’s laugh cut through the air, making you flinch, “Oh, you have, my son. You have changed.”

“Dutch I–”

And Dutch cut him off, “Yes, Arthur, you. You and your family. What about this family? You gonna abandon the rest of us just cause we ain’t your flesh and blood?”

You didn’t wait around for his answer. Arthur and Charles left for Roanoke Ridge, and you pretended to pack for the move to the next hellhole. But you weren’t going, not anymore. You were getting out. You were saving yourself, your daughter, and your unborn baby with or without Arthur.

The gunslinger didn’t have time to process anything in the chaos of Beaver Hollow. Only when the dust had settled and Molly’s corpse was drug away did he notice your heavy absence. Before he could even ask, Tilly wielded a sword disguised as a letter.

“M’sorry, Arthur.”

Mist built up in his eyes, and he had to blink rapidly to clear it away. He couldn’t tell if the tightening in his throat was from a building cough or suffocating guilt and regret. That lovely voice in his mind’s ear that once upon a time made him feel like the luckiest man alive was now speaking the words that would surely lead him spiraling head first to his untimely demise.

My Dear Arthur…

#also loved how you wrote “get it through his thick skull”#like yes he's just that stubborn #he really is 😂#incredible moots writing #fic rec #I have no heart left and yet it was so incredible #we suffer and ask for more #zaefic #pen pals #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan angst

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pinescent-and-gingerbread · 6 days ago

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Loooved reading your take on girl dad Arthur!! (and the pic omg!! He's so pretty in piiink AND THE WEDING RING ARE YOU KIDDING ME!! I WHISH I could mod so bad to make my Arthur wear one ommmg!!!).

The way you described Beatrice's birth and Arthur's reaction to it is just so cute and in character, I could totally picture him going in a trance like that 😂 our sweet boy.

And then! The seriousness falling on us as she simply said Micah's name, Reader immediately going in lioness-defense mode, loved it.

Arthur'll be back soon. Let the men dish it out. Get some sleep, get some sleep, get some sleep. But your legs swung over the cot, and you left your eaglet behind in the nest as you soared into camp, sharp eyes scanning for your prey–a rattlesnake masquerading as a man. The drunk bastard saw you coming, flashing his fangs in a smug display of mockery. He didn't expect the beer bottle he'd been nursing to explode across his head, the glass shattering like a storm of meteors crashing down to earth. The impact sent him sprawling to the ground, and you were on top of him in an instant in the only way you'd ever be–out for blood. A blackhole temporarily swallowed both of you as you slammed your forehead into his with all the force of two colliding planets.

This whole section was perfection, Zae! The double metaphors with the animal world and space; as an astrophysics lover, I was conquered! It's gorgeous to read, the beer exploding in meteors, the blackhole swallowing them as if they were in another dimension of violence, the planets colliding!! Peak figurative speech here!!

And then, I also adored how you made Arthur come back at this very moment, calming Reader, then reversing the role as she's the one to grab his sleeves and stop him from destroying Micah 😂And the boot kick to his chin!!! IN YOUR FACE (literally!) SICK BASTRD!! (yes I got reaaally invested LOL).

The ending was super sweet too, Arthur holding his girls and kissing them to sleep, *sighs*. He deserved this!!

You really nailed this mother reader; I think, even for us who don't have a child, that there's this inherent instinct of protection in us, and it resonates in everyone, and you made it even more powerful with the sweet and innocent figure of a daughter. Bravo!

And perfect timing for me because I just saw you've published a little something more!!! On my way to read part II!!! 🏃🏃💨💨

Aegis

Summary: You defend your daughter from Micah. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Word Count: 1,810 Tags: fluff, family, girl dad Arthur, angst, high honor Arthur Warnings: Violence, mistreatment of a child

an: This was an anon request. I was weary about this one because I'm not a mom, nor do I spend a lot of time around toddlers, but omg exploring girl dad Arthur was so fun! Shout out to @emerald-ranch for helping me with a horse fact for this one! Thanks for reading. Enjoy!

Aegis: as in protection, means or method of defending

A pair of hazel eyes cut through the dark, shining like twin stars burning holes in the blanket of night. Those usually bright supernovas seemed dull now, washed out by the weight of the world. Your daughter's tiny form scooted in impossibly closer, and you bundled her up, swaddling her like she was still the wiggling newborn you'd held in your arms three years ago.

"Bea," you sighed, trying your best to shield her from the beast that was your frustration. Exhaustion had settled in your bones hours ago, pressing your patience paper thin. Sleep called out to you from the void, and you wanted so badly to answer, but your daughter reeled you back every time.

"I want Daddy," she whined, clutching the fabric of your shift in her little fists.

You missed him too; she had no idea. In a time that seemed like forever ago, you and Arthur laid in this same cot, your fingers tangled in his shirt in the way your daughter's were in yours now. Motherhood terrified you, and after telling Arthur you were pregnant, you cried all through the night. Raising a child was daunting enough, but doing it with an outlaw in a gang seemed like a nightmare turned reality.

Solid arms held you together in body and mind. He was your rock even though he was going through his own quiet panic. Arthur knew the harsh realities of parenthood all too well. Still, he knew the brightness, blooms, and blossoms it could bring, and he let himself want it more than anything. Making good on his second chance at having a family, he married you right away and devoted all of himself to you and the baby.

That warm summer night after your screams and her cries had died down, he bowed his head over her, staring without a word. First, one salty tear fell from his face and onto the blanket you'd knitted for her, then another, and another. You tried to offer him the dignity of silence, but your tears burst out with a sob. It was only then that he spoke, snapping out of his baby-induced trance, his eyes wide with concern.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong at all."

And his baby loved him oh so much, the very definition of a daddy's girl. He was the one who protected her from spiders and wasps, the one who made her giggle til her face turned red, the one who'd lift her up on his shoulders and run amok through camp, and the one who snuck her candy when she thought you weren't looking. He was her Polaris, and little did she know, she was his entire universe. Leaving both of you at camp, even if only for a few hours, chipped away at a piece of his soul every time. In the present, you combed your fingers through her light-colored hair and kissed her on the head twice–one from you and one from Daddy, as you always told her.

"I know. He'll be here when we wake up, honeybee."

And the tent fell silent, but your daughter twisted and shivered, unsettled by passing footsteps.

"Momma…" Her words came out smaller than her. "M'scared."

You wanted to tell her there was nothing to be afraid of, but you couldn't lie to her–not when there was a price on her father's head, not after Blackwater, and not after Colter. In yet another attempt to calm her, you whispered soft shhs. But then she spoke once more, a single word–a name, and your breath caught in your throat.

"Micah."

You sat up with the quickness of a startled doe, sweeping your eyes over your daughter. Tears stained her rosy cheeks, but she was otherwise unharmed.

"What about Micah?" The question came out more urgent than you'd intended, and she hid herself in your bosom. You hoped she didn't hear your heart pounding wildly against your rib cage.

"Don't want him to come here."

"Why'd he do that?"

She only shook her head. You peeled her away from you, wiping her tears away with the pads of your thumbs before cupping her face in your hands. Your voice was loving but firm–a quiet, motherly demand.

"Bea. Talk."

She vocalized as best as she could: "He's scary and mean."

And then, after a long pause, her small hand came to rest over yours on her cheek.

"He touched my face."

A curtain of red-hot wrath veiled your vision, and it took everything in you to hide it from the baby in your arms. No matter how big she got, she would always be that pink, wrinkly baby in the knitted blanket. You put on a stellar performance, eyes twinkling, your smile adding light to the darkness that'd settled over you. You reassured her that Daddy and Uncle Dutch would take care of that, that she had a whole family looking out for her, and that she was safe.

In one last attempt to get her to settle, you laid back down, closed your own eyes, and began a slow hum of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." In the middle of the second run-through, she'd gone limp, finally. You tried to follow suit, but your thoughts were louder than ever.

Arthur'll be back soon.

Let the men dish it out.

Get some sleep, get some sleep, get some sleep.

But your legs swung over the cot, and you left your eaglet behind in the nest as you soared into camp, sharp eyes scanning for your prey–a rattlesnake masquerading as a man. The drunk bastard saw you coming, flashing his fangs in a smug display of mockery. He didn't expect the beer bottle he'd been nursing to explode across his head, the glass shattering like a storm of meteors crashing down to earth. The impact sent him sprawling to the ground, and you were on top of him in an instant in the only way you'd ever be–out for blood. A blackhole temporarily swallowed both of you as you slammed your forehead into his with all the force of two colliding planets.

The shockwave drowned out everything around you–so much so that you didn't hear someone shout for Arthur and didn't notice your husband had returned just before you left the tent. Micah fought back hard, trying in his intoxicated stupor to twist free, but you had him good, your nails like talons breaking skin and cutting off his air supply.

An owl-like screech tore through your lungs as two strong hands yanked you away. Your husband's eyes locked onto yours, grounding you, clearing the haze of fury. Time seemed to slow as you saw yourself reflected in concerned chrysocolla-colored eyes.

"Hey now, hey, easy…"

Just when he thought he'd calmed his distressed mare, the snake hissed in the grass.

"Get control of your whore, Morgan!"

"Arthur," you caught his attention, him looking from Micah back to you, "Beatrice."

At hearing his daughter's name, Arthur bared his teeth and dug his nails into his palm. Without thinking, he shoved you aside, and you knew if you let him get to Micah, all hell would break loose. Roles reversed, you grabbed at his sleeve with both hands, pushing your weight into your heels to keep him in place. Micah started a mocking chortle.

"That seed of yours." He tried once again to rise up on his feet, "Ain't much hope for her. She'll let fellas buy her for a penny just like her momma."

His taunting stung enough for you to temporarily lose hold of Arthur, and he took his chance, sending the metal tip of his boot flying into Micah's chin. The devil incarnate spit out blood and chipped bone and let out a hoarse, guttural bellow of pain, but he didn't try to stand anymore.

"Lucky she got to you first." Arthur spat, "I ain't stopping her next time."

Your husband stomped off with his arm around your waist, back to your lion's den where your cub was still sleeping soundly. Collapsing onto the cot, you dug your palms into your eyes, trying to ease the pressure of a building headache. Lantern light came into your field of vision as Arthur's calloused fingers pried your hands away.

"That was stupid," he whispered, aware of Beatrice still sleeping. One hand clutched your chin, and the other moved your hair out of your face to get a good look at you, "I woulda' handled it."

The cold sting of a wet cloth against your bruises made you wince.

"I know. Couldn't help myself."

Arthur didn't say anything else and finished cleaning you up in silence. Though the presence of your family back together brought you a semblance of peace, you twisted the gold band around your finger, lost in hellish thoughts. You and Arthur made promises to each other and to your little girl, and you'd make good on them, no matter the cost.

"I'll kill him next time."

Arthur had stripped down to his union suit and nodded at you as he took his hat off and set it beside the photo of your daughter's namesake.

"I know."

Then, his face lit up. He stopped your fidgeting by taking your hand in his and kissing your knuckles. Deep down, he knew you had it in you, but something about his wife, the sweetest thing he'd ever met, nearly ripping a man's head off his shoulders with her bare hands, struck a cord of pride within him.

"Though I don't think anybody in their right mind would tempt you after seein' that."

And you felt embarrassed of your wild display of maternal ferocity. But Arthur, in all his tenderness and love for you, made all your doubt vanish.

"That's my girl," he whispered, holding his hands out.

You let him hoist you up into his warm embrace. The steady rise and fall of his chest and rhythmic heartbeat could've lulled you to sleep right then and there. This closeness had become a delicacy since parenthood, and you savored every bite. Arthur sighed contently as he breathed in the scene before him. Though you were buried in his chest, you knew he was looking over at his sleeping baby girl while he was hugging you.

"Maybe one day she can spend the night with Abigail and Jack, and we can have some husband and wife time."

You hummed in agreement, tempted to let your limbs fall weak in his arms. The sounds of rustling blankets woke you right back up.

"Daddy?"

Arthur didn't let you go. Instead, he squeezed you harder, a silent thank you for the life you'd birthed, the life you'd given him. He guided you back to the cot beside your daughter, tucking both of you in and pressing a soft kiss to your foreheads.

"Hey, sweetheart. I'm here," were the last words you heard before soaring serenely off the cliff of consciousness.

#incredible moots writing #fic rec #zaefic #arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur #arthur morgan fluff #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #girl dad Arthur Morgan

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pinescent-and-gingerbread · 7 days ago

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i love how the gang comments on arthur’s appearance sometimes

also love the shit he does whenever he sees mary

#so true #love it when he shaves and they all praise him #he's so cute #arthur morgan fan art #Arthur Morgan

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pinescent-and-gingerbread · 7 days ago

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Shoutout to the animators who decided to make this man fine af.

#THE FIRST ONE WITH HIS LIPS AND TONGUEEEE #aaargh #arthur morgan #rdr2 photography #sweet moots

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pinescent-and-gingerbread · 9 days ago

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Yes yes yes, Wipday!! I was super kindly tagged by my dears @twola and @wipidek, thank you, girls! (feeling a bit emotional to have you two incredible writers including me in this, arghhh😭)

tagging @zae-heeyyy, @eternalsams if you want to share a wip or inspo, with no pressure or deadline!!

Here's a little snippet of a scene that will probably happen somewhere in my Modern AU fic (you know, the cop!Arthur one). It's still a bit blurry but I'll probably go for the coffee shop owner Reader!!

"Right now, you're like this spoon. No! Like this latte." You start to explain, sounding way too invested in your demonstration. You put the beverage right under his nose, and he removes his elbows from the tabletop as if giving you space for your little lecture.

"Oh, so I am a drink now?" His eyebrows rise.

"Why, you'd rather be a spoon?"

"I don' know, Miss, I'm not sure I'd make a good coffee. Probably would taste too damn bitter."

"You can never go too bitter with coffee. Plus, I've learnt after years doing this job that the roughest looking beans don't always end up tasting the sourest."

Arthur doesn't properly answer. He snorts and smiles as if you had told him a joke, a real smile, almost an embarassed one, making him look different. Nearly nervous. Oh, this was new. Beside his usual frown and the simple approving sound he always made when he finally had his cup of black expresso, he hadn't displayed much emotion when you were around, even when talking about important things. The typical closed-off cop, you had thought many times, that had seen too much and didn't want to talk about it, maybe from fear everything would spill out of him. Everything would show. The pain, the failures, the sadness, the cracks on the cup letting everything flow through them.

"Whatever ya say." He concedes, unable to find a witty comeback, his hands reaching for his own cup that he brought to his lips as only defense against his awkwardness. Blue eyes shining above the porcelain.

You wonder, for a brief second, who he really is behind his sarcasm and eluding puns. Something in you wants to know, but you're convinced this is a forbidden territory. He was like a mystery to solve —but what was a riddle that didn't want to be answered?

#wip day #wip #scribbles #I'm having so much fun exploring this AU already!#also guys feel free to drop your favorite modern Arthur headcanon in my ask because I would love to know!#upcoming fic #arthur morgan x reader #modern au #cop!Arthur

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pinescent-and-gingerbread · 9 days ago

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Oh Twola. I am SHOOK with that ending. (spoilers!)

First of all, I looooved how you included a lot of the character's habits in that one (Arthur spitting and sniffing and scraching his chin, Dutch spinning his ring and calling Hosea old girl...). Those are such neat little details that make their portrayal so convincing. Taking notes here!! ✍️✍️ In the same vein, I love how you reused that line from Arthur (the "East?!" one). I could hear him say it in my head!

Outside of Hosea, Arthur’s been beside Dutch the longest. There is a reason that he’s the enforcer of the gang - and it wasn’t just the fact that he could ensure compliance through physical means.

Also, I don't know why, but the whole Dutch and Arthur moment as they said goodnight to each other twisted my guts, this line especially; I don't know how things are going to go later, but this exchange sure made me grit my teeth!

And then, the smut. Oooooh yes yes yes. You probably know how down bad I am for a pining Arthur unable to resist his urges, this was so good.

You step further from the water, and Arthur holds his breath as you emerge. The chemise, threadbare and soaking. As you come to stand at the very edge of the lake, the gentle, clear waters still dripping down your body, you shiver slightly before padding over to your pile of clothes. Reaching downward, you grab the wet hem of your chemise and start to pull it upward - baring your knees - your thighs - your… This - this was too much. [...]

This whole section was so good to read. You described Ruth's body emerging from the water so perfectly, I understand how it was impossible for him to resist! And the way he just can't remove his hand from his cock once he's done peeing, this is brilliant. He didn't exactly do it deliberately; he just succombed to it because his hand was already there. I'm in awe! Oh, how I love how you describe him biting his lips as he came against the tree thinking of her; it was just so hot!!

And that ending, God. I didn't see that coming, and I adored how realistic it was. I mean, of course, Arthur would want Ruth to have a proper life before it was too late. Of course, he would be running from his own blossoming feelings. But Lord, does it hurt when he actually leaves, after Ruth has been begging for him! You really did great, because it was heartbreaking. I can't wait to see what you have in store next!! (I can already imagine the regrets as he won't be able to stop thinking of Ruth... Beautiful angst we got here!)

Devil's Backbone - Owanjila VIII

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV

Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Owanjila VIII: The Noble Heart of an Outlaw

The gang needs to relocate - leaving Owanjila proves to be a turning point, back east, back to the Dakota, back toward Limpany.

CW: masturbation, voyeurism, violence against women, injuries, death

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

“No, no, it’s a step here, yes, Güera, there you go-”

Javier is the world’s most patient instructor, with you having stepped on his boot an uncountable number of times. But dismayed he is not, keeping one arm on your waist and holding your other hand. You blow upward at your hair that has fallen over your eyes, but laugh as Javier smiles and tries to lead you into the steps once again.

“And uno-dos, uno-dos- alright now, you’re getting it now!” He laughs as you make it through an entire set of steps without stepping on his boot once. Next to the campfire, he hums the tune of a song long lost to his homeland, “And - aqui-!” He dips you down, and you squeal in delight and surprise.

“Arthur.”

Arthur Morgan is drawn out of his darkening thoughts as Dutch smacks his shoulder. He had been staring into the fire, its orange tongue reaching up and out from its heart. He had been trying to ignore Javier and you dancing next to the campfire as the evening dusk settled in on the horizon.

Grinding his teeth for a moment, he sniffs and then spits on the ground before following Dutch back toward his large tent.

“You said you found somethin’ other than Strauss’s debtor out there?” Dutch looks over his shoulder, cracking his knuckles before spinning the large ring on his pinky. Arthur grunts and gruffly shoves his hand into his satchel, and the tell-tale sound of

Dutch unfolds the paper, looking at it for a moment before snorting. He leafs through the second, third, and fourth - until he looks at each one of the crinkled posters. Dutch van der Linde, leader of a gang with thousands of dollars of bounties over three different states, looks up at his enforcer with a glint of satisfaction in his eye before folding the papers in half and tossing them on the card table amongst his accouterments.

Arthur purses his lips, “Much as I wanna ignore ‘em, Ruth found ‘em in Strawberry. That’s awful close. We’re still awful close to Blackwater and all that heat.”

“Old girl - take a look at this, makin’ Arthur here look like a real outlaw.” Dutch points at the papers as Hosea clears his throat as the older man slowly walks up to the tent.

“A new wanted poster?” Hosea asks, reaching the table and taking a look a the papers, raising his eyebrows as he unfolds them each one by one, “Well damn. Where did these come from, Blackwater?

“Ruth found ‘em when we were in Strawberry.” Arthur nicks his jaw to the east, in the direction of the small mountain town.

Hosea frowns, refolding the papers and placing them face down on the table, “We need to move east, Dutch. Other side of Valentine.”

“East? Into all that - civilization?” Arthur hisses, agitated at the thought of encroaching woodlands and people.

“Well, we ain’t gonna get around Blackwater to go West. Hell, West Elizabeth is too hot. And you seen what Ambarino looks like - we ain't gonna get through them mountains and northwest. It's the only way.” Dutch states firmly - pointedly.

“I don’t like it either, but I think that’s our only option now. New Hanover is pretty big. Enough room for us to lie low.” Hosea adds in agreement with Dutch, his hand smoothing down his neck as he considers the lack of options.

Arthur sighs, clenching his fingers around his gunbelt. “Fine. Fine. When are we goin’?”

“I’m gonna send Charles and young Sean ahead to find a new spot tomorrow morning. I’ve heard talk of a few good areas. By the time we get the camp packed up and heading out, I’m sure they’ll have somewhere procured.”

Hosea nods in agreement, and Arthur continues to look at his boots, a silent sign that he too is in lockstep with Dutch’s plan.

Dutch claps his hand on Hosea’s shoulder as he steps past his oldest comrade toward the campfire.

Lording over his kingdom, Dutch van der Linde gives his orders.

“In the morning, we move. Ain’t no need to do it now - everyone get some rest. Susan - at dawn you get this camp together.” Dutch booms over the gathering, closer to the main campfire.

Susan nods, looking over toward the men loitering, “Alright, you lazy bums, you heard the man. No getting drunk off your sorry asses tonight.”

You look up to Javier, who snorts lowly, “You heard the boss. Thank you, Güera. Told you I would get that dance out of you.”

You smile back at him and nod, giving him a faux curtsey as he laughs. You bid him goodnight and head in the other direction, making your way over to the women’s lean-to, where Mary Beth sits on her knees packing before she lies down for the night.

“I’m gonna go wash before tomorrow. I’m sure I won’t have any time in the morning.”

“Gonna be okay alone?” Mary Beth asks, looking up from packing her books into her small chest at the head of her bedroll.

“Sure, I’ll just be on the other side of those boulders. Moon is bright - ain’t nothing out there, I’ll be quick.” You smile down at her as you pull a clean chemise from your leather bag. “Be right back.”

Just far enough from camp to ensure your solitude, you lay your folded chemise on the flat surface of a rock along the lakeside. Leaning over, you unlace your boots, one after another, and place them neatly on the ground. You unbutton your vest, shrugging it down your arms, and that too gets folded on the large rock.

You unlace your skirt, shimmying it down your hips until it flutters to the mossy ground below. Finally, you unbutton your creamy blouse, laying it with your other clothes until you are clad only in your chemise and bloomers. Taking a deep breath, you begin to enter the water.

You grit your teeth against the shock of cold water against your feet, up your calves as you wade into the lake. Your chemise quickly gets waterlogged the further you move, bracing yourself as you move deeper into the dark water. Finally, you reach where the water is just above waist deep. Taking a deep breath, you dip down and fully submerge yourself underneath Owanjila’s surface, quiet as a grave in the night.

“Alright, well, we’ve got our marching orders. I’m going to turn in. Staying up later is for you younger men.” Hosea waves off at the two of them as he paces away from Dutch’s tent toward his own sleeping roll. Dutch and Arthur both mutter goodnight.

“We’ll be fine, Arthur. Have faith - I ain’t steered us wrong in the long arc.”

“Always got faith in you, Dutch.” Arthur looks up his feet to meet his foster father’s gaze, he knows when Dutch is looking for the validation of Arthur’s loyalty, as if it would ever falter. Outside of Hosea, Arthur’s been beside Dutch the longest. There is a reason that he’s the enforcer of the gang - and it wasn’t just the fact that he could ensure compliance through physical means.

Dutch claps his hand heavily on Arthur’s shoulder. “Always gonna ride with you by my side, son.”

Arthur nods, closing his eyes as his chin drops.

“Night, Arthur,” Dutch says as he pulls the canvas closed. The last thing Arthur sees in the tent is the flash of Molly O’Shea’s red hair. Sighing, he rolls his head as he rambles over toward his own wagon but doesn’t stop at it, moving further into the wooded area along the lake’s shoreline. He scratches at his jaw as he stares at the ground, ducking between trees to get far enough from camp to relieve himself.

Arthur stops at a tree about ten feet back from the water and goes to lift the buckle of his gunbelt until he hears movement, probably just a deer. His hand hovers over his holster - more through muscle memory than anything else. He looks toward the lake, past the tree he stands behind.

It wasn't a deer.

It was you. You, half-submerged in the lake, a chemise plastered over your body, the wet cotton snug as a second skin.

Arthur shouldn't be looking, he shouldn't be leering. But he is somehow locked in place, his legs refusing to move as his fingers tighten on the bark of the tree he is hidden by.

You turn back toward the shoreline and draw your hair into your hands, wringing water from it. Arthur’s breath hitches. Christ, in the light of the moon, he can see the water sluicing down your body. Your chemise hides nothing as you wade toward the shore.

He can see your pebbled nipples press against the wet cotton. The soft curve of your breasts. How your waist dips inward before flaring at your hips. How easily that creamy white fabric soaked through; he can see the shadowed triangle of dark hair at the jointure of your thighs.

Reaching downward, you grab the wet hem of your chemise and start to pull it upward - baring your knees - your thighs - your…

This - this was too much. He swallows and turns away, some sense of morality finally overpowering his need as he quickly paces up the hill, further into the trees. Arthur finally gets to what he came out this way for, lifting his gunbelt with one hand and unfastening his pants, drawing himself out and emptying his bladder against the tree.

Dirty old man…

The stream of urine peters off, but Arthur could curse himself as his cock is completely hard in his grip. He stares down at his pelvis after swallowing, his fingers now wrapped around his girth, pulsing with hot blood in his hand. He bites his lower lip as his thumb draws back his foreskin, the head of his cock slipping out, the last few drips from his bladder shining in the moonlight.

It's been so long since he’s done this - giving into these base urges. Arthur gives his shaft a slick pump and hisses near immediately at the reaction in his gut. A shiver went down his spine, the tightening of his testicles as they drew closer to his groin.

He braces his forearm against the tree trunk and leans his forehead upon it, the rim of his hat pushed back, completely subservient to his arousal.

He pumps again and closes his eyes to the feeling. Behind his eyelids, you’re there, in that damn translucent chemise, the cool waters of Owanjila sluicing down your body. Your nipples are hard, pebbled, and visible against the fabric. The swell of your breasts, curves that his hands could engulf should he strip that fabric down. Your blonde hair; darkened, wet, and plastered against your back.

Arthur finds a rhythm, hard and fast and desperate; the night air is interrupted by the slick sound of skin on skin, the loud breathing through his nose, the jingle of his spurs as he spreads his legs further.

“C’mon now-” He grits as he pumps himself shamelessly.

He squeezes his eyes shut tighter in conjunction with beating his cock. You’re there, standing, soaking wet, the fabric hiding nothing. Not the curve of your waist, the subtle flare of your hips. Not your soft belly, trailing downward to the triangular thatch of dark hair over your cunt, he could see that through the damn cotton. You might as well have been naked -

Arthur grunts, his hips thrusting forward, biting down on his lower lip as spurts of his spend landing on the tree trunk, adorning the bark in stripes of white.

He lets out a long breath before tucking his softening cock away. Redoing his pants, guilt and shame bubble low in his gut. He tries to shake the image of your body in the lake from his mind.

But much to his chagrin, it lingers.

Morning comes entirely too quickly. Susan’s shrill voice seems to echo off the hillside as she furiously packs up the camp - ordering items to be boxed, wagons to be loaded, loafing old men to get off their asses.

By midmorning, the ragtag group of outlaws has finished packing and sets on their way heading east - away from West Elizabeth and Blackwater. Skirting north of Strawberry, the gang heads toward New Hanover, and hopefully, more breathing room.

You sit patiently next to Hosea, who drives one of the full wagons, the two draft horses snorting as they pull the heavy load. The afternoon sun glints off the river at Cumberland Falls, where the wagons slow to cross the running water. You know where you are, realizing that the clear waters that the horses are muddying through is the Dakota.

That means the fork in the road you can see ahead leads east toward Valentine, and south toward…

“H-Hosea, can I ask a favor?”

He places his hand on your knee reassuringly, “Of course, sweet girl.”

You look at the road heading south, the rest of the wagon train taking the fork that leads east. You swallow, looking back to Hosea.

“I need to see it, It's south of here. Please, can you take me…- then, then we can meet back with the rest of the gang.”

“See what?” Hosea’s eyebrow raises, questioning, unsure of what you are referring to.

“My old home. It’s here, along the Dakota. Hosea, please-” You plead, your voice hoarse with the threat of oncoming tears.

Hosea swallows, looking over his shoulder, back to you, and over his shoulder again. He waves back to a rider, then pulls on the reins of the draft horses hard, bringing them and the large wagon to a halt on the road.

Arthur meanders next to the wagon, his mare heeling next to Hosea. “What’s this?”

“Arthur - take Missus Shaw down the road. She needs to get some closure. Meet back up with the rest of us.” Hosea motions to the southward road, away from the slow-moving wagon train.

Arthur frowns, runs his hand over his stubbled jaw, and nods begrudgingly without putting up further argument. He shifts restlessly on his mount, and the mare stomps her feet impatiently.

You take Hosea’s hand, holding it tightly as he assists you to climb over him and down the wagon, your boots squelching in the mud of the road as you land. You look up once more to the elder outlaw.

“You stay strong, dear girl.” Hosea leans over and cups your face, petting your cheek lightly as you swallow and nod up to him. The older man straightened up and cracked the reins of the draft horses, and with the creaking and groaning of wood, the wagon started lumbering down the road again.

You turn toward your companion, saddled high on his Kentucky Saddler, and blow a breath out your nose as you reach up toward him expectantly.

Arthur grumbles under his breath but leans over and extends his arm down for you to take. With a speed that nearly unseats you, he pulls you up effortlessly and helps you sit on his horse's rump.

Hosea looks back over his shoulder as you get settled.

Your hand firmly presses against Arthur’s back. He gives Hosea a two-fingered salute and digs his spurs into the mare’s side, yanking her reins to the right as she whinnies and jumps into a canter down the dirt road, heading south.

Limpany, or what is left of it, stands set back from the road. Blackened, charred building frames amongst blackened, charred ground. Dead trees stand stark against the cloudless blue sky. Even the birds stay away - the only life is rats that scurry among the debris as Arthur’s mare plods along the road in the cold, clear Dakota.

A pain claws at your throat. Behind your eyes burns with unshed. Your grip on Arthur’s jacket tightens, but he doesn’t notice as he takes in the sight in front of him.

“What th’ hell happened here?”

You don’t answer, stunned into silence as the mare comes to a stop in the meadow just north of the carnage. You cry out, sliding down from the horse’s rump, surprising Arthur as you stumble slightly before gathering your skirts and running further into the wreckage of the town. Past the sign you painted with Amos’s help. Past the skeleton of the saloon that Ulysses kept running. The Sheriff’s Office where Hilliard would sit behind the desk, sometimes with his boots crossed upon it when things were quiet. Past the paddock where Aethon would trot around.

The fragile beams of your cottage with your husband are all that is left of that life. Everything burned to cinders, a black scar against the riverside. Your bed, your clothes, your kitchen table. All gone.

“Missus Shaw!” Arthur calls out, swinging his leg over the horse and landing on the ground, quickly hurrying after you.

You stand in the middle of the small town, your life, your new beginning, everything - gone.

A wail escapes your mouth as you collapse to the ground, tears overflowing down your cheeks as your fingers dig into the dirt - dirt mixed with blackened ash.

“Ruth…Ruth, c’mon-” Arthur whispers, his hands gently pulling on your shoulders to help you sit up. He gets down on one knee and gathers you closer to him, and you shudder as you take in a loud breath and cry into his shoulder.

It is several moments of this, of his hand rubbing comforting circles on your back, him speaking in hushed whispers to calm you down. You are finally able to regain your composure as you pull back and wipe your eyes with your sleeve, mumbling an apology.

Arthur shakes his head, brushing it off, and stands up, extending his hand to help you up as well. “Is there anything y’think left from here?”

You swallow, swiping at your bleary eyes, and nod, your lip quivering. “I-I know the sheriff k-kept a box under his desk. If it’s s-still there, there may be some g-gold in it.” You take his hand, and he tucks you into his side, his arm wrapped around your waist as the two of you slowly make your way toward the burnt husk of the sheriff’s office. Your eyes mist over again when you think of Hilliard.

“Here, let me see if anythin’ is there. Don’t want you falling through the floor.” Arthur leaves you by the foot of the stair, and you wipe at your eyes again, looking back over the charred remains of Limpany. You take one more shuddering breath as you hear the groan of metal on metal behind you before Arthur’s heavy steps come closer.

“Here, you should have it.” The cowboy holds out a gold bar in one hand with his hunting knife in the other, where he must have pried the lockbox open with his blade.

You shake your head, pushing it back toward him, “I don’t want it.” He doesn’t push, tucking the bar into his satchel.

“Alright, well we got that. I reckon we should catch up with the rest of them, if you’re ready.” Arthur grips the hilt of his hunting knife, looking down at the blade for a moment.

You look around at what is left of the town. A cool breeze rolls through the river valley as you feel a tear slip down your cheek once more. You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and then opening them again, to see Arthur with one hand outstretched toward you, a pillar of strength, a safe place, a -

A shape moves behind Arthur, and you barely get out a scream before another man crashes into him, the two of them stumbling toward you and knocking you to the ground as they roll head over heel on top of each other.

“Ain’t you know this here’s O’Driscoll territory, Arthur Morgan?” The man yells as he scrambles on top of the gunslinger. Arthur chokes as he struggles against his attacker, but with the element of surprise, the man is able to straddle Arthur’s chest, both hands around his neck, squeezing hard.

You look around, the horse is clear on the other side of the remnants of town, where Arthur’s rifles and guns are stowed. His revolver, on his belt, was underneath him as he tried to shove the man off of him. He gasps, hands on his attacker’s forearms.

From your vantage point on the ground, you spy his hunting knife on the ground between you; he must have dropped it as he was tackled to the ground. You heave yourself up, grab the knife, and throw yourself at the man, sinking the blade into his body, praying you didn’t hit Arthur in the struggle.

You feel it, nauseating, the inches of metal in your hand cutting through skin, through sinew, through muscle and tendon and meat. Liquid gushes over your fingers, shaking as it guides the hilt deeper.

The robber screams, swinging backward with his elbow, cracking against your face. You fly back, collapsing to the ground as your vision whites out for an instant. Face down, you groan in pain as you turn your face to the side to clutch at your nose, coughing loudly against wet leaves and the damp ground.

Arthur takes the opportunity to knee his attacker in the stomach, throwing him from his position several feet away. He hacks, sitting up, coughing deeply as he attempts to catch his breath, hand rubbing at his neck. He rolls to his knees and stumbles to his feet, heaving, glancing at the man, who writhed against the ground, his groaning turning to wet gasps.

The knife was buried in his neck.

Arthur grimaces as he wipes his hands on his black pants, the man’s blood staining his palms and a large swath of his blue denim shirt.

You groan again, whipping your other hand to cover your face as soon as you realize you’re covered in blood, gushing from your nose. You curl into a fetal position on the ground against the piercing pain in your head.

Arthur regains his footing and walks toward you. He notices you are writhing in pain and moves faster. “Shit,” he curses, his voice rougher than usual. “Hey, c’mon, let me see your face.”

He stoops down next to you and takes both of your shoulders in his hand, lifting you into a sitting position. Your eyes water as your hands cover your nose and mouth, blood seeping between your fingertips. Your whine is muffled behind your palms, which you refuse to move.

“Ruth, I gotta see if your nose is broken,” Arthur says quietly, one of his large hands moving from your shoulder to your wrist, tugging your arm from your face gently. You groan again, shutting your eyes tightly as you allow him to pull your hands away.

“Don’t look broken.” He mutters, his other hand moves to your cheek, lightly moving your head back and forth as he inspects your nose. Bruising and swelling have already started across the bridge of your nose, blood still runs down your face in a trickle.

You open your eyes blearily, gritting your teeth. Arthur removes his hands from your cheek and wrist and unties the black bandana at his neck. “Here, don’t want you ruinin’ any of your nice handkerchiefs.”

“Thanks,” you groan, taking the bandana and placing it under your nose to stymie the oozing blood.

Arthur stands up, giving you his hand, which you grab. He pulls you up and steadies you as you sway. You groan again, holding his bandana up to your nose tighter.

A gurgling noise drew both of your attention to the man sprawled out on the ground a few feet away. He had stopped moving, blood pouring out his mouth and from his neck. Arthur lets go of your arm, walking over to the man and kicking at his side with the toe of his boot. When he gets no response, he leans over and grasps the hilt of the knife, pulling it slowly from the man’s neck. It slides out with a wet, squelching noise.

“Looks like I owe you a body, heh.” Arthur drawls, taking the blade of the knife and wiping it on the man’s shirt before sheathing it on his gun belt. He spins around, a wry smile on his face, which falls immediately when he sees you. Your hands are at your side, the wet bandana hanging limply from your fingertips. Your cheeks are pale, and blood drips under your nose. You stare at the man on the ground with wide eyes, your frame swaying slightly.

“You alri-”

You immediately turn away and retch, emptying your stomach onto the ground.

Arthur runs a hand down his face, sighing. You wipe at your mouth, the other hand on your knee as you stoop over. You spit on the ground and wipe your mouth again. Your sleeve is hopelessly bloody from your nose, which, thankfully, has slowed its oozing.

Unfortunately, you make the mistake of looking back at the corpse on the ground and immediately retch again.

Arthur looks at you, dry-heaving at the sight of blood you’d spilled, eyes red rimmed in grief, the darkening bruising on your face.

This wasn’t any life for you.

It’s been nothing but trouble after trouble for you since the moment you’ve joined the gang, he realizes as you sniffle. Getting thrown from Boadicea and cracking your ribs. Getting so sick from Jack, you were a bed for several days.

Looking like a battered woman because he was unable to protect you from a lone attacker.

Added to this troublesome attraction he had for you - it had been years since he’d been forced to take care of himself like a damn teenaged boy - years since anyone but Mary had occupied that space in his mind.

No. He wasn’t going to do this again. You deserve better than that, you deserve better than this.

And he sure as hell doesn’t.

You wipe at your nose with the back of your hand for the umpteenth time, frowning as your skin is stained red. You wipe your hand against your vest and groan as you press your forehead against Arthur’s leather jacket.

Your head pounds with each painful step of the mare, slowly plodding toward Valentine. Arthur had muttered something about going to the doctor in town. You moan softly, clutching at his waist as Valentine comes into view, farms and ranch fences dotting the roadside.

Arthur was being short, curt, and silent. He leads the buttermilk Saddler mare to the hitching post outside the train station. He swings himself down, his boots squelching in the fresh mud. Without a word, he ties the horse’s reins to the hitching post and turns back up to you, holding his hands out for you to take.

“C’mon.” He mumbles, and you slowly move your hands to his shoulders, and he pulls you gently from the horse’s rump, as he has so many times before, but something this time is different.

You land gently on the ground, your feet sinking into the mud much as Arthur’s did.

You look around, perplexed, knowing there was a doctor’s office further into town. “Isn’t the doctor-”

Without meeting your gaze, he grabs your hand, turning it over between you. You make a small noise of confusion. You can see his jaw clench.

Arthur quickly opens his satchel and shoves a clip of bills into your open hand. “There’s enough there to get you settled in Saint Denis.”

Your stomach drops.

“Wait, no… stop, Arthur…” you frantically try to push the money back at him, but he yanks your arm, closing your palm around the clip. He pulls his second revolver from the holster on his belt and shoves it at you as well.

“You don’t belong with us.”

He was leaving you, leaving you here, shipping you off.

“Arthur, don’t!” Your voice cracks as he lets go a heavy, mournful breath. Without making eye contact with you, he turns around, back towards his mare waiting in front of the station.

“No!” You yell, hitching up your skirt, and dart after him, catching up just as he swings himself up on the horse’s saddle.

You grab onto the hem of his beaten-up leather coat with your free hand, pleading with him as you look up at him, tears uncontrollably running down your face, frightful with darkening bruises across the bridge of your nose.

“Missus Shaw.” Arthur drawls in a low register, there is a regretful tone in his voice, “You’re not for this life, this gang. You’ll be safer without us.” He does not look at you, his eyes hidden under the rim of his old gambler hat.

“Arthur, please,” you cry, your voice cracking, “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me alone, I’m begging you.”

“You aren’t for this.” Again refusing to make eye contact with you, Arthur Morgan gently pushes your hand away from him, pulling on the horse’s reins, and clicking his tongue at the mare, spurring her into a quick canter toward the way out of town.

“Arthur!” You weep as he pushes his horse around the station and over the railroad tracks. He gives no response, not even looking back at you.

You stand there, on the muddy road in front of the Valentine train station, weeping as the closest thing you have to a man in your life leaves you, riding off into the sunset. You’ve watched him ride away from you before, what feels like ages ago, on the hills outside of Blackwater, and Hosea was able to convince him to turn back.

His silhouette grows smaller as he urges his mare into a gallop, rushing away from the livestock town and out into the rolling hills of the Heartlands.

You’re alone again. Left standing outside a train station with a wad of cash and a revolver. Back to where you started, after Frederick’s death, after Limpany, after the loss of your child.

You’re utterly alone in this world.

END CHAPTER III: OWANJILA

#fic rec #awesome moots writing #still not over the waking off part #but also my heart is destroyed #twolafic #devil’s backbone #red dead smut #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x original female character

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