#Arthur Morgan x fem reader

[red-doll-face]

Arthur is always a little...different when he comes back from a gunfight Small blurb ! I love him, he's the sweetest. Maybe I should do NSFW pt 2? 😈 its finals week so i just have something small...

(high honor) Arthur Morgan x fem. reader

The vision that Arthur is after he comes back to camp from a gunfight. He’s pumped full of adrenaline, sweating from being in the sun all day, and all he wants is to see his girl. He drops from his horse all at once, in one expert motion. And you heard his horse coming so you put down what you were doing to go and see, excited to see him. Your smile is so sweet, surprised but not disappointed when he almost picks you up off the ground with a hug so tight. Your arms are around his neck, almost knocking his hat off his head. 

Then there's a desperate kiss, more intimate than Arthur is usually willing to be in the middle of camp, considering he’s not keen on Sean or Uncle making perverted comments. It's more hungry than he usually is too, Arthur likes to be somewhat of a gentleman but you like it when he lets his need for you win. He’s trying to get his tongue in your mouth, licking at yours, your plush lips on his sending signals straight down his spine. Sure enough, there's a wolf whistle from somewhere, and Arthur sets you down gently enough. His pupils are blown out, despite the sun not having gone down yet. 

When you’re on the ground you can only reach his chest and his lower face, feeling him almost pant, the firm grip on your shoulders because he has to be touching you. Your fingers might come up to scratch at his scruff, over the small cleft in his chin and the two little scars there. The way he leans into it like a hound dog, loving your touch. 

And his big hand holding your wrist up to his face. Rough fingers, dirt under his fingernails, smelling like metal and gun oil. All of his fingers overlap at your wrist, making you feel like a doll in his hands. 

"How's my girl doin'?" His question makes you light up, his sweet names for you have you in the palm of his hand. "Nobody gave you trouble?" You shake your head, biting your lip gently before letting it go. Your lips are still wet with his licking. You love the way he kisses, like he's trying to taste you.

“I'm alright. Where have you been? You’re not hurt, are you?” Your worried words make him shake his head.

“Nah, I’m fine, just had a run in. Some gang of boys playin’ at outlaws,” you sigh, happy he’s okay, nodding. “Missed my princess,” his whisper is delicate but heavy all at once. You know how he sounds when he wants something only you can give but he doesn’t like to impose. But you can never deny giving Arthur exactly what he wants; what he needs from you. He holds your hand now, pets the top of your hand with his thumb, the contact so soft. It's sending pleasant tingles up your arm.

“I missed you too, Arthur. I always miss you when you’re gone,” your words have him softening up like warm butter, melting into you. He’s still riled up, you can feel the shudder go through him when you touch the worn leather of his belt. There’s still something sparking in those eyes, that gorgeous blue with shining green. Your other hand drifts upwards, over his chest, playing with the strap of his suspenders. You can’t help but look at the way they curve over his chest, big and strong muscles under his cotton shirt. You decide to play coy, a sweet smile, as if you hardly notice the way he’s looking at your body, focusing on your mouth as you open it to speak.

“Take me somewhere?” You don’t have to tell him twice before he’s grabbing your hand, gentle but still rushing to help you into his horse. You sit in front of him side saddle while he holds you steady. You giggle, he's up on the saddle with you so quickly, pretending to not hear the voices that laugh or ask where you're going.  

[arthurmorganswh0re]

The Things We Carry

about: you tell arthur morgan you're expecting. he has a hard time accepting his new reality, juggling his responsibilities with the gang. a new life calls for arthur, but his past pulls him in the opposite direction.

tags: angst, pregnancy, illness, tb, death, loss, grief

wc: 15.7k

an: hi so i put this together over the course of a week. i had the idea of what life would've been like if arthur got someone pregnant but the tragedy that happens in the game still happens. so this is really sad imo, and REALLY long. hope you enojy :3

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The sun was dying slow behind the mountains, bleeding rust and gold across the sky. It should’ve been beautiful, the kind of sunset folks wrote songs about, but your stomach was twisted tight, a dull ache blooming in your chest. You leaned against the split-rail fence just outside camp, your fingers knotted together, cold even though the air was warm.

You could hear him before he even came into view. The sound of hooves crunching through dead leaves and fallen branches, his horse’s low huff, and then his voice–rough, tired, familiar. 

“Y’alright out here?” 

You turned slowly. Arthur swung down from his saddle, dust rising at his boots. He was already frowning, something unreadable behind those blue eyes. He didn’t like the quiet, not from you. 

“I been lookin’ for you,” he added, taking a few steps closer. “You missed dinner.” 

“Wasn’t hungry.” 

Arthur’s brow furrowed deeply. “That right?” He studied you for a moment, head tilting slightly. “What’s wrong?” 

There it was. 

You looked at him–the man who’d carried you across rivers, pulled bullets from your leg, whispered soft but broken apologies into your hair when he thought the world was ending. And still, somehow, this felt harder than all of that. 

“I need to talk to you,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. 

His eyes narrowed just a little. “Alright.” He leaned against the fence besides you, arms crossed, glancing sideways. “Talk, then.” 

You hesitated. There was no soft way to land this. No way to pad it with kindness. So you just said it, like pulling a bandage off a bullet wound. 

“I’m pregnant.” 

The words hit the air like gunfire. Sharp. Irrevocable. Loud, even in a whisper. Arthur didn’t move. He didn’t speak, or blink. The only sound was the breeze brushing through the pines and the distant murmurs of camp behind you. 

You turned to  him, trying to find his eyes. “Did you hear me?” 

He straightened slowly, like a man waking up inside a nightmare. 

“What did you say?” 

“I’m pregnant, Arthur,” you repeated, firmer this time. “I’m gonna have a baby. Your baby.” 

For a split second, something flickered in his face. Something raw. Then it vanished behind a wall of cold, practiced detachment. 

“Goddammit,” he muttered, turning away from you. His hands went to his hat, taking it off before raking through his hair like he wanted to tear it out. “Jesus Christ.” 

Your chest squeezed. “I didn’t plan this Arthur.” 

“Well no shit, neither did I!” He snapped, spinning back toward you. “You think I got time to be somebody’s father? You think that’s a good idea, right now? With everything goin’ on?” 

You flinched like he’d hit you. “I didn’t say it was a good idea. I just thought you deserved to know.” 

He paced, boots heavy in the dirt, a storm rolling behind his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re sayin’. You don’t know what this life is. I can’t keep you safe, I can hardly keep myself safe. I kill people for money,” he spat, “I lie, I steal–I ain’t no man a child should be lookin’ up to.” 

Your voice cracked. “I’m not askin’ you to be a hero, Arthur. I’m just telling you what’s real.” 

“Real?” he scoffed bitterly. “Ain’t nothin’ about this life real, not really. It all ends bloody. You know that. So what, you wanna bring a child into it anyway?” 

“I didn’t choose this,” you finally snapped, “it happened. And I’m scared, alright? I’m scared outta my goddamn mind. But I’m still standin’ here. I still told you. That should mean somethin’.” 

He went quiet again, breathing hard, hands flexing uselessly at his sides now. The fire was gone from his eyes and what was left was something worse. Emptiness. Shame. 

“I ain’t no good for you,” he said, barely audible. 

You blink back the burn in your eyes. “You don’t get to decide that.” 

He looked at you then–like he was memorizing your face for a day he already knew was coming. His jaw clenched, hard. 

“How far along?” he asked, gruff. 

You swallowed. “Couple months, maybe less.” 

He nodded slowly. That muscle in his jaw twitched again. And then, he stepped back. “I need to think,” he said, almost choking on the words. “I–I need to clear my head.” 

You opened your mouth to speak but nothing came. Just silence. Just the sinking feeling in your gut as he turned, climbed back into the saddle, and rode off into the dusk without another word. 

The wind picked up behind him, colder now, as if it carried the weight of what had just broken open between you. 

And you stood there, alone in the failing light, hand drifting instinctively to your stomach, wondering if he’d come back before the world burned down around you.

The days bled together like bruises—blue and yellow and aching.

Arthur didn’t say a word.

Not a damn word since the night you told him.

He didn’t storm off again. Didn’t yell. He just… slipped away, day after day, like a shadow shrinking in the light. He rose before camp stirred and came back well after sunset, when the fires were low and the air was heavy with sleep. You’d catch glimpses of him—sharpening his knife alone by the wagon, brushing down his mare in the dark, smoking in the trees with his back turned. Always just out of reach.

He avoided your eyes like they might burn him. And worse? He never said your name. Not once. Every time you passed close, every time your hand hovered near his on a shared task or your eyes lingered too long—he moved away. Like you were poison.

At first, you were angry.

You’d built something with him. Earned his trust in a world where most folks had to fight just to stay human. You’d shared nights wrapped in blankets under the stars, whispered truths into the hollow of his throat, watched him flinch at your touch not out of hate, but out of unfamiliar tenderness. He chose you—over doubt, over fear, over all the mess of the gang and the blood that clung to his hands.

And now? He was gone without ever leaving.

You tried, the first day. Quietly approached while he fed the horses, voice low and careful.

“Arthur…”

He didn’t look up.

You tried again the next afternoon, your voice sharp with frustration.

“You don’t get to just pretend I don’t exist.”

He kept walking.

By the third day, you stopped trying.

You felt like a ghost in your own skin, caught somewhere between furious and hollow. Not just for you, but for the life growing inside you—silent, unseen, and already left behind.

Even Dutch noticed the tension, though he said nothing, just gave Arthur one of those long, assessing looks across the fire. Hosea, bless him, opened his mouth once to ask if you were alright, then closed it again when he saw your face.

And you? You tried to go about your days like nothing had changed. Gathered herbs. Cooked. Patched your torn shirt. Held your composure like a knife between your teeth. But at night—those were the worst. When camp was quiet and the stars pressed down and you could hear the distant murmurs of Arthur’s voice talking to anyone but you.

One night you stood in the shadows behind a tree, watching him laugh softly at something Charles had said. It hit you like a punch to the ribs. He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t in pain. He’d just shut you out. Tucked you away like a mistake he didn’t know how to unmake.

You pressed your hands to your stomach, eyes burning, and whispered, “I’m sorry, baby,” into the cold dark air.

Because whatever Arthur Morgan was running from—you were part of it now.

The next morning, he rode out before dawn. Didn’t say where he was going. Didn’t say goodbye. Just like before. And the issue—the truth of it—hung between you both, thick as smoke and just as choking. Unspoken. Unresolved. Like so many things in his world. 

As he left, something inside you went still. 

Not shattered—not yet. Just... cold. Numb. Like your heart had folded itself in half and tucked away behind your ribs for safekeeping. You lay in your cot staring up at the pale canvas of your tent ceiling while the camp stirred outside—pots clanging, voices low, hooves thudding against frost-hard earth. It was just another day in a world that didn’t stop moving, even when yours had.

He wasn’t coming back.

Not to you. Not to this.

Maybe he hadn’t meant to be cruel. Maybe silence was the only language he could speak when he was drowning. But knowing why didn’t change the ache. It didn’t make it easier to carry the weight of him—and the life growing inside you—alone.

By the time you emerged from your tent, the sun was climbing through low clouds and a few flakes of snow drifted down, slow and aimless. The gang was bustling—Bill was already drunk, Tilly was peeling potatoes, and Dutch was giving one of his sermons by the fire, voice full of honeyed hope and half-truths. Nothing had changed, not really.

Except you.

Your hand lingered at your belly again, a soft, unconscious gesture now. You were starting to feel different. Not much, but enough. A flutter of nausea some mornings. A new kind of tired in your bones. A quiet awareness of something not quite visible but still entirely real.

And no one knew but Arthur. And he had left you alone with it.

You avoided the questions—told Miss Grimshaw you were just sick, waved off Tilly’s concern with a forced smile. No one pushed. Not yet. But the pressure was building like thunder on the horizon.

That night, you sat alone near the edge of camp, watching the stars through bare tree branches. The fire crackled low beside you, but you didn’t add more wood. You liked the quiet. You needed it.

You thought about leaving.

You’d thought about it before, in passing. But now the idea rooted deeper, more real with every breath of winter air. What were you waiting for? Arthur to come back and pretend he hadn’t abandoned you? Dutch to notice and offer some poetic bullshit about fate? The gang to change?

No.

You knew better.

This life was a dead-end road—drenched in blood, shrouded in smoke. You had followed it long enough. And now, for the first time in a long while, you had someone else to think about. Someone who hadn’t asked for any of this. Someone who deserved better than a cradle made of stolen gold and broken promises.

The decision came slow, like a fire building from embers. Quiet, steady, irreversible.

You were going to leave.

Not tonight. But soon. You’d need to be smart—take supplies, money, maybe even a horse. You weren’t sure where you’d go, not yet, but the world was big, wasn’t it? There were towns where nobody knew your name. Farmlands. River valleys. Places where children were born without gunfire outside the window.

You spent the next few days preparing in secret. Quiet, careful. You mended saddlebags. Stashed food in a hidden pack under your cot. Pocketed bits of coin from jobs you hadn’t turned in. No one noticed, or if they did, they didn’t say anything.

The air got colder. Snow stuck to the ground some mornings, lingering in the shadows. You began to wear a heavier coat, buttoned low over your belly. No one asked. Maybe they didn’t want to know. Or maybe they knew and chose the same silence Arthur had.

Either way, it didn’t matter.

You were leaving.

Then, one night, you crept out before dawn. The moon was low and the sky washed silver. The camp was still sleeping, curled in tents and dreams and old regrets. You paused near Arthur’s tent. It looked the same as ever—neat, quiet, impersonal. As if he might return at any moment and slip back into place, as if nothing had ever changed. But you knew better now.

You stepped forward. Hesitated. Then left something small at the flap—a folded note.

You didn’t write much. Just a single line, in your uneven, looping script.

I’m going to do this with or without you. But I wish you’d come with me.

And that was it.

You saddled a horse—quiet, a mare you trusted—and rode out under the veil of a waking sky. No tears. No theatrics. Just the crunch of hooves over snow and the slow bloom of morning behind the trees.

You didn’t know what lay ahead. Towns, danger, loneliness. Maybe worse.

But you also knew this: you were strong. Strong enough to survive this world. Strong enough to carry what Arthur couldn’t.

You rode on, hand on your stomach, heart full of silence and fire.

And for the first time in days, you felt something like peace.

The camp was half-awake when Arthur finally returned. He had been gone on a long hunting trip with Charles, bringing home a variety of meats and pelts like elk, moose, and beaver. 

Snow clung to Arthur’s coat, stiff and crusted. His horse was tired, ribs heavy from the hard ride. He didn’t speak to anyone—just tied her near the hitching post, nodded at Pearson’s half-hearted greeting—acknowledging their bounty. He trudged through camp like a man halfway through a bad dream. He didn’t expect to find anything waiting for him. He hadn’t really expected you to wait, either. But when he reached his tent, the first thing he saw was a small folded piece of paper, tucked just beneath the flap like a whisper someone left behind. 

He stared at it for a long time. Snow melted in his hair. Cold sank into his boots. But his hands didn’t move—not until his chest felt tight enough to crack. He bent down, fingers brushing the worn edges of the paper. It still smelled faintly like you.

“I’m going to do this with or without you. But I wish you’d come with me.” 

There was no signature, you hadn’t needed one. Arthur stood there for a while, the paper trembling just slightly between his calloused fingers. He stared at your handwriting until the ink blurred. Then he folded it carefully, like it was something holy. He opened the flaps to his tent, walked in, and sat on his cot he once shared with you. He thought long and hard about what to do next. Should he follow you? Or just find you? Should he let you get away from the dangers of the gang, leaving everything unsaid? For a moment, he was confused. 

Then, he decided the right thing to do was to find you. At least to know you’re both okay. For peace of mind, he told himself.

It took him close to a month to find you. Weeks of bitter wind and half-frozen trails, of sleeping under pine trees and asking questions in dusty towns. He’d asked too many people if they’d seen a woman on horseback—strong-willed, quiet, brown eyes, maybe wearing a coat too heavy for her size. Most shook their heads, some offered a guess. One said she saw someone that sounded like you riding north, toward Strawberry. Arthur hadn't meant to feel hope when he heard that. But he did. And that hope kept him riding straight through the storm. 

When he finally reached Strawberry, the town was blanketed in soft, half-melted snow. Smoke drifted from chimneys. A dog barked somewhere behind the sheriff’s office. The main street was quiet but not empty—townsfolk bustled in and out of the general store, a rancher tied off his horse outside the saloon, and the sky overhead was gray with the weight of coming snow. 

He tethered his horse near the general store and made his way toward the inn. The woman behind the counter barely glanced up until he said your name. Then she nodded, almost cautiously. “She’s got a little house up behind the falls,” she said. “Bit outside of town. Walkable if you don’t mind a climb. Been keepin’ to herself mostly.” 

Arthur thanked her with a tight nod and turned away before she could say more. 

He found the house nestled at the edge of the woods—small, crooked-roofed, with a low stone chimney and a fence half-built around the back. Smoke curled from the chimney. There was laundry strung between two trees, fluttering in the cold wind. A horse was grazing nearby—he recognized her. One of the mares from camp. 

Arthur’s jaw clenched. You were here. You’d really done it. You made a life—without him. 

He knocked before he lost his nerve. At first, there was nothing. Then he heard it—footsteps inside. A quiet shift of movement. The door creaked open an inch, just enough for you to peer out. Your eyes widened. For a moment, you didn’t say anything. Neither did he. Just that snow-heavy silence between you. 

Then softly: “Arthur.” 

He swallowed hard, unsure what his first words to you would be. “You just left.” 

You opened the door the rest of the way. You looked… different. Not worse. Just changed. Stronger in some ways. Tired in others. A little paler, maybe. But your eyes were clear. And your belly had begun to show. 

He noticed you had a hand resting gently over your stomach. 

“I left because I had to,” you said. “You gave me nothing, Arthur. Not a word. Not even a look.” Silence fell. “I waited. And then I made the only choice I could.” 

He stepped forward, his voice low and rough. “You think I didn’t notice? I was tryin’ to protect you, goddamn it.” 

“By pretending I didn’t exist?” 

“By not dragging you down with me.” His voice almost an ashamed whisper. He was angry, but not at you. It wasn’t ever at you–it was to himself. At his own fear, his own cowardice. 

You stared at him, your voice calm but heavy. “You weren’t protecting me. You were avoiding me.” 

Arthur looked away, jaw tight. “I know.” 

The wind rustled the trees. A pair of crows shrieked overhead, then flew off into the gray sky. Arthur’s voice was slow when he finally spoke again. 

“I was scared. Of what it meant. I don’t know how to… do any of that. How to take care of you. I was…” he paused for a second, searching the space between you two for words he couldn’t form himself. “...I was afraid I’d ruin everything. That i’d break somethin’ I love.” The words escaped him in a hush. 

You blinked at him. That word hung there—love—suspended like breath in the cold. A word he so rarely used for you. A word reserved for moments like these. Rare, raw, and tender. 

“But that don’t mean I didn’t care,” he continued. “It don’t mean I didn’t think about you every second of every damn day since you left.” 

He met your eyes then, and his voice broke on the edges. “I was angry when I saw that note. Not cause you left—but ‘cause I didn’t go with you. And that ain’t your fault. That’s mine.” 

You stared at him for a long moment. Then, finally, you stepped aside and nodded toward the inside. “Come in,” you said softly. 

He hesitated only a second before crossing the threshold. 

The cabin was warm. Simple. There were blankets by the fire, food on the table, a kettle steaming. It was a life—not fancy, but real. Tangible. Safe. Something he knew he couldn’t offer you. 

Arthur looked around like he didn’t quite believe it was all yours. All yours. 

“Guess you didn’t need me afterall,” he muttered. 

You turned to face him, arms crossed, a quiet defiance in your stance. 

“I wanted you. That’s different.” 

Arthur looked at you, and for once he didn’t try to explain himself. He just let the silence fall again, softer this time. And after a while, he stepped forward, slow and careful, and rested a hand over yours on your stomach. You didn’t pull away, neither of you said anything. 

The kettle whistled low and steady in the quiet of the cabin, catching your attention. You walked across the small cabin towards the stove where the kettle sat patiently. You poured the tea with slow, deliberate movements—hands steady, though your heart felt anything but. Arthur sat across from you at the small wooden table, hands clasped around a chipped mug, eyes tracing the grain in the wood like it held answers he couldn’t find in you. 

It had only been a few weeks but it felt like another lifetime since you’d last spoken—since you last looked him in the eyes and seen something other than guilt buried in them. The fire cracked in the hearth, casting golden light over the room. Outside, the snowfall had started to thicken. Fat flakes drifted sideways in the wind, gathering along the windowsill and piling slowly against the porch. Arthur glanced toward the window, jaw tensing slightly. 

“You’re not gonna make it back to camp tonight,” you said quietly, watching him. He didn’t argue. “I’ve got a spare bedroll,” you added, eyes flicking down to your tea. “You’re welcome to stay. Just for the night. It’s… safer.” 

Arthur hesitated, then gave a slow nod. “Yeah. Guess that’d be smart.” 

Smart. Right. Logical. Reasonable. So why did it make your heart twist in your chest? 

Time passed by slowly, slower than what was comfortable in all honesty. But the two of you caught up slowly, like two people trying to reach each other in a language they’d almost forgotten. You told him about the town, how the general store clerk gave you extra oats when he noticed you were eating for two. How the lady at the inn had helped you find the little cabin. How quiet it was out here, how lonely, sometimes, but how peaceful too. 

Arthur listened in silence, nodding now and then, gaze never straying far from you. He didn’t interrupt. Just sat there, hat in his lap, looking like he’d aged a little more since the last time you saw him. He told you he’d been running jobs between looking for you. That the Pinkertons were getting too close. That Dutch was getting restless, dangerous. That the world he lived in was unraveling—and fast. He admitted that he was thankful you got out at the time you did, especially considering the baby you now carried. 

You asked him if he was alright, he lied and said he was fine. But you saw the wear in his eyes. The way he sat too stiffly, like he was waiting to run. Like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome here or trespassing on something he’d already lost. Later, after the sun dipped low and the wind began to howl harder through the trees, you made supper. Nothing fancy, just stew and bread and the last of the salted meat. He thanked you with a nod so quiet it almost didn’t reach his lips. You ate in near silence, listening to the wind rattle the shutters to the cabin. 

When you both moved to the fire, you sat on opposite sides. The warmth between you helped, but the space still yawned wide with unspoken questions. Arthur cleared his throat. “I ain’t gonna pretend like I didn’t mess up,” he finally spoke, voice rough, eyes on the flames. “I did. I know that.” 

You glanced at him, waiting. He fidgeted with a loose thread in his glove. “I don’t know what I’m doin’. With you. With the kid. I ain’t had someone depend on me like that in a long time. And I ain’t got much left in me to give.” 

You looked at him a long while then said, “I never asked you to be perfect, Arthur. I just wanted you there.” The words hung in the air between you, quiet but heavy. 

“I know,” he muttered. 

You both fell silent again. The wind moaned outside, louder now, a storm building on the ridge. You pulled your blanket tighter, feeling the ache of old hope stirring in your chest—hope you didn’t quite trust anymore. When it got late enough to yawn, you laid out the spare bedroll beside the hearth. You didn’t ask him to share your bed. You didn’t offer. And he didn’t ask. But you lingered, both of you, staring into the fire like it might hold something more than flickering light and fading warmth. Finally, he laid down with a groan, one arm folded beneath his head. You extinguished the lantern and climbed into bed, facing the wall. Neither of you fell asleep immediately, simply laid awake in the quiet comfort of each other's presence. 

You rolled over, checking the time. Past midnight. You sat up, staring through the dark cabin towards the now dying fire of the hearth. Something told you that he was still awake. With a voice barely above a whisper, “Do you want to be in our child’s life?” 

The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the floor. You couldn’t really see him from where you sat but you imagined his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling, mouth drawn tight. For a long time, he didn’t answer. 

Then: “I don’t know.” 

Your heart sank, slow and heavy. 

But then he added, voice lower now, more raw: “I want to. I just… I’m afraid I’ll mess it up. Like I messed up everythin’ else.” 

“You can’t undo the past, Arthur,” you said. “But you can choose what you do next.” 

He stayed quiet for a long moment, his silence saying more than he could. 

“You don’t have to do it alone,” you reassured him. The quiet hung between you like smoke.

You saw him nod, just once, like it hurt to do it. “Alright.” 

You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t reach for him. Neither of you moved. But something shifted in the stillness. A step, a breath, a beginning, maybe. 

And in the deep hush of a snowbound night, you both lay awake, listening to the wind, the crackle of coals, and the slow tentative beating of three hearts trying to learn each other again. 

The next morning came blanketed in white—the snow thick on the porch railings, the trees sagging under its weight. There was no point trying to ride out. The roads were buried, the air sharp and bright with winter silence. You stood at the window with a steaming mug between your hands, watching the frost climb the glass.

Behind you, Arthur stirred. You didn’t turn around.

“I’ll split some wood,” he said, voice hoarse with sleep.

You nodded. “Axe is out back.”

It was a small thing. A simple thing. But it was the beginning.

That first day, you watched from the porch as he chopped kindling. His coat hung open, breath fogging in the cold. He worked without saying much, but he didn’t complain either—not about the cold, or the blisters, or the snow piling up around his boots. Every now and then, he glanced toward the house. Toward you.

You pretended not to notice.

He carried the firewood in and stacked it by the hearth. You nodded to him when he came in, and he gave a short grunt in reply. Then he sat at the table while you prepared breakfast—oats, some berries you’d dried from the fall. You passed him a bowl. He muttered a soft “thanks.”

The silence was different now. Not sharp. Not full of tension. Just… new. Careful. Like neither of you wanted to scare it off.

The days passed like that. Slow. Simple.

Arthur fixed the fence behind the cabin, tightening rails and replacing slats where the snow had cracked the old ones. You offered him soup afterward, and he sat close enough by the fire that your knees brushed under the table. Neither of you pulled away.

He mucked out the little barn beside the house, fed your mare, helped patch the draft in the window above your bed.

You caught him standing in the doorway more than once, watching as you folded linens or stirred something over the stove. He never said anything when you looked back—but he didn’t look away either.

That unfamiliar pull grew stronger with every quiet chore. Every wordless glance. Every brush of your fingers as you passed each other in the narrow kitchen.

And still, neither of you spoke about what this was.

Or what it might become.

On the sixth night, the snow stopped.

Stars appeared—faint, but visible through the thinning clouds. The moon glowed soft and full, casting silver over the trees. Inside, the fire had burned down low, throwing flickering shadows across the walls.

Arthur stood near the hearth, hands resting on the mantle. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbow. You sat on the edge of the table, watching him quietly.

He turned.

“I’ve been thinkin’,” he said, voice low.

You tilted your head, unsure where it was going.

He hesitated, eyes on the floor. “About you. About this place. The baby.”

Your hand went unconsciously to your belly.

Arthur looked up. There was something in his eyes you didn’t expect.

Not fear. Not shame. Something softer.

“I ain’t good at this,” he said. “Any of it. But I feel… different here.”

“Different how?”

He took a slow step toward you. “Like maybe I could be someone else. Someone better. Even if it’s just for a little while.”

You blinked, heart tight in your chest.

“Do you want to be here?” you asked. “With me?”

“I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me,” he said quietly. “Camp’s still out there. Dutch is still out there. My past, all of it—it ain’t gone.”

He came closer.

“But right now? All I know is this feels more like home than anywhere I’ve ever been.”

Your breath hitched. And in the quiet that followed, you stood. Walked toward him. Met him halfway. The kiss came slowly—tentative, uncertain. His hand was warm against your jaw, calloused fingers trembling just slightly. Your hands settled at his waist, anchoring yourself to him. He tasted like salt and cold air, like woodsmoke and something unspoken. Something real. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t smooth. But it was honest.

When you pulled away, you didn’t say anything at first. Neither did he. You just stood there, inches apart, breathing the same space. Then Arthur gave a short, almost broken laugh.

“That okay?” he asked, voice rough.

You smiled, faint and sure.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “That was okay.”

The fire burned low. The snow outside had stilled. And for the first time in a long while, the weight of what you carried didn’t feel quite so heavy. Not when someone might finally be willing to carry it with you.

Days turned into weeks and before you knew it, Arthur had been at the cabin for 2. Life seemed content, calm. You were happy, and Arthur seemed…happy too. Your belly growing by the day, and Arthur’s affection growing along with it. 

Arthur had started to fall into a rhythm that felt dangerously like peace. He’d wake early and tend to the horses, the quiet hum of your morning routine comforting in its familiarity. Sometimes you’d sit together at the table, hands brushing as you reached for the same spoon. Other times, he’d find himself pausing in the doorway, just to watch you move around the little cabin like you belonged there—and like maybe, somehow, he could too.

But peace is fragile when you come from a life built on gunfire and running. 

You were inside by the fire, mending a shirt. Arthur was outside, splitting the last of the firewood, when he paused—head tilted, brow furrowed. The sound of horses echoed down the ridge. Not one. Two.

He moved toward the front porch, wiping his hands on a cloth.

You stepped outside just as the riders crested the path.

John Marston was the first to dismount—coat dusty, a tired look in his eyes. Behind him, Charles followed, calm as ever but serious. They both looked cold, weather-worn, and—Arthur noticed it right away—urgent.

“Arthur,” John called out, his voice taut. “We’ve been lookin’ for you.”

Arthur stiffened. “Didn’t know I was missin’.”

John gave a humorless laugh. “Dutch sure thinks y’are.”

Charles slid from his saddle, giving you a polite nod before turning to Arthur.

“He sent us out days ago,” Charles said. “Said there’s a job comin’ up. Big one. He needs everyone back.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched.

You stepped down from the porch, eyes scanning the two men.

“What kind of job?” you asked.

John looked at you for a moment, then turned back to Arthur.

“Blackwater. The ferry,” he said grimly. “Dutch says it’ll be the last one. One big score, and we’re done.”

Arthur looked down at the snow-covered ground, fists curling at his sides. The cold crept up his spine, but it wasn’t the weather. It was the weight. The pull of obligation. The noose of loyalty tightening again.

“He needs you, Arthur,” John pressed. “He’s been getting… unpredictable.”

Arthur’s throat was tight. “He’s always unpredictable.”

Charles crossed his arms, quiet but firm. “We’re not here to twist your arm. Just… Dutch is counting on you. You’re the only one who can talk sense into him.”

A long silence settled over the yard.

You looked at Arthur, and he could feel your eyes like fire on his skin. He didn’t look at you. Couldn’t. Not yet.

“Why now?” he asked, finally. “Why this one?”

John shifted, glancing toward the horizon. “We’re losin’ ground. Pinkertons are closing in. We’re out of time.”

Arthur dragged a hand down his face. “Goddamn it.”

You stepped forward, voice calm but firm.

“So what, Arthur? You just go back? Just like that?”

He turned toward you, eyes flashing with conflict. “I don’t know!”

The air turned brittle. The sound of the wind in the trees was the only thing filling the space between all of you.

“I been tryin’,” Arthur said, his voice cracking. “Tryin’ to be here. To do something that ain’t just robbin’ and runnin’. But I still got people countin’ on me.”

You crossed your arms, holding yourself tight.

“I’m not asking you to turn your back on the gang,” you said, quieter. “But you can’t keep doing both. You can’t keep one foot in that life and one here.”

Arthur looked down, jaw tight.

Charles watched the exchange, saying nothing, but you could see the understanding in his eyes. The quiet sympathy. He’d always been the only one who truly saw Arthur.

“I’ll wait by the horses,” Charles said after a moment, and he walked off without another word.

John lingered a bit longer. He looked at Arthur, then at you, then back again. “You’ve got some thinking to do,” he said, voice rough. “But don’t take too long. Dutch won’t wait forever.”

Then he turned and followed Charles down the path, their footsteps crunching in the snow. When they were gone, the silence was louder than it had been in days. You and Arthur stood a few paces apart in the yard, breath curling in the cold air.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he said, quietly.

“I know,” you replied.

He looked at you then, really looked. Like he was searching for something in your face—some answer, some permission to let go of the life he’d lived too long.

“I don’t wanna leave you.”

“Then don’t,” you said. “But if you stay, stay for real. Don’t keep your heart out there with Dutch. With that life. I can’t raise this baby always wondering if you’re coming back with bullet holes in your side.”

Arthur looked down at the snow between you, nodding slowly.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice like gravel. “Scared that I ain’t gonna be the man you need. Or the man that kid needs.”

You stepped toward him, placing a hand gently on his chest, over the slow, heavy beat of his heart.

“I’d rather have an honest man who’s scared,” you said, “than one who runs off pretending he isn’t.”

He closed his eyes, exhaling shakily.

“I need time,” he whispered.

You nodded. “Take it. Just don’t take too long.”

The wind picked up again. The snow swirled between you.

And for the first time in a long while, Arthur Morgan had to ask himself who he was when he wasn’t the gun for hire, the loyal soldier, the ghost riding behind Dutch Van Der Linde. Because now, for the first time, he had something to stay for. Something to lose.

That night was quiet, still, only the sound of the cracking fire filling the small cabin. Arthur didn’t say much when it was time for bed, instead he curled himself around you, holding your belly in his hand until he fell asleep. You took in the moment, memorizing the feel of his breath on your neck, his scent that you grew accustomed to over the course of the past couple weeks. 

But quiet tears streamed down your cheeks and fell onto your pillow, yet you made sure Arthur didn’t hear you cry. Fear, panic, unease. It all grew in your chest simply by imagining that he could possibly be gone, that he’d miss your belly growing, miss the birth, miss the baby’s first… everything. Still, you wiped your tears, breathing deeply and taking in his calming scent. You put your trust in the universe, hoping that it would be kind to you like you were to it. 

It’ll all work out, you tried to convince yourself. 

You woke before dawn to the sound of boots on floorboards and the distant clinking of saddlebags. The fire was down to glowing embers, the cabin cold. You sat up slowly, watching his silhouette move through the dim light—tall, broad, quiet as a ghost. His back was turned, but you knew the tension in his shoulders like your own breath.

He didn’t expect you to wake.

“Where are you going?” you asked softly as you sat up on the bed you both shared.

Arthur turned. His hat was in his hands, that battered old thing he never seemed to take off unless he had something heavy weighing on him. Like now.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he muttered.

“You didn’t.”

He crossed to your side, sitting besides you so you were eye to eye. His face was rough from sleep, beard untrimmed, but his eyes—those storm-colored eyes—were clear.

“I’m going back,” he said. “Just for a while.”

You knew it was coming. Still, your chest tightened.

“Blackwater?” you asked.

He nodded. “One job. Dutch swears it’s the last. I ain’t so sure I believe him, but… I gotta be there.”

You swallowed thickly. “And then what?”

Arthur reached for your hand. His palm was rough and cold, but his grip was steady.

“Then I come back here,” he said. “For good.”

You stared at him, searching for the cracks. The fear. The doubt. But all you saw was something that scared you even more: hope.

“You really think you can leave that life behind?”

He exhaled through his nose, eyes falling to your joined hands.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I know I want to. I know I’m tired of runnin’. Tired of buryin’ people. Tired of wonderin’ what the hell I’m doin’ it all for.”

He looked back at you, voice low.

“But here… with you. Our baby. It’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you blinked them away.

“Promise me,” you whispered. “If something goes wrong—you come back home anyway. Don’t disappear. Don’t vanish into that world again.”

Arthur brought your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.

“I promise.”

You stood on the porch when he rode off.

His horse kicked up frostbitten dirt as it wound down the snow-covered trail. He turned back once—just once—and raised a hand in farewell. You lifted yours in return, heart lodged somewhere in your throat.

And then he was gone.

The cabin felt too quiet without him.

You went about your chores—feeding the mare, boiling water, keeping the fire alive—but the stillness weighed on you. It crept into the corners like smoke, like a draft you couldn’t seal out. You caught yourself reaching for a second mug in the morning, turning toward the door at the sound of hooves that never arrived. And every night, you laid in bed with a hand resting over your stomach, missing the weight of his hands, wondering where he was. Was he safe? Was Dutch pushing him too far again? Would he come back whole? Would he come back at all?

The days blurred.

You’d sit by the fire in the evenings, a book open in your lap, barely read. The wind whistled through the trees, and you’d stare out the window for long stretches, listening for the faint echo of hooves that might never return.

You wrote letters you never sent.

Arthur— The snow melted yesterday. The ground’s soft again. I planted something near the fence line. I think you’d like it here, come spring.

Arthur— I felt the baby move today. Just a flutter. Like a heartbeat under my skin. It scared me. And then it made me smile.

Arthur— Where are you? Come home.

You’d fold them, tuck them into the drawer beside your bed. Your hope lived in that drawer now. Fragile, folded, waiting.

The days grew longer. The snow thinned. The creek behind the cabin started to run again. Still no word. You chopped your own wood. You rode into Strawberry for supplies once, just to hear voices, to remind yourself the world hadn’t gone quiet.

But it had.

At least the part that mattered most.

One night, as spring tried to take hold, you sat on the porch wrapped in Arthur’s coat he left behind for you to keep, watching the stars blink open in the purple dusk. The mountains were still capped in white, but the trees had begun to bud, reaching for something new.

Your hand rested on your belly—rounder now, unmistakable. The child was quiet, like they too were waiting for a father they’d never met.

You didn’t cry.

You’d done enough of that.

You just waited. Quiet and still.

Trusting that somehow, the man who’d kissed your hand and whispered I promise would find his way back through the darkness. That he'd return not just for the promise he made, but because—despite the blood, the gunpowder, and all the things he carried—he wanted to.

The snow had melted into slush and mud. Spring had clawed its way up the mountain at last, leaving a damp chill in its wake and a cabin steeped in silence. The trees were budding, the creek behind the house was alive again with the babble of meltwater, and the wind had lost its bitter edge.

But he didn’t come back.

Arthur Morgan had ridden out into the cold weeks ago, hat low over his brow, a man torn in two. And still, there was no sign of him.

Not until the letter came.

It arrived the way all heartbreak does—quietly. No fanfare, no warning. Just a knock at the door one late afternoon, as the sun spilled gold through the trees.

You opened it to find an unfamiliar man on your porch. Weathered face, neutral eyes. He didn’t say a word—just handed over a folded, sealed envelope and nodded once.

“For you,” he said, voice low, and then turned back to his horse without waiting for a response.

You closed the door behind you, hands trembling as you turned the letter over. Your name scrawled across the front in familiar, looping script. It looked rushed. Smudged, even. Dirt on the corners, a faint thumbprint near the seal.

Arthur’s handwriting.

Your heart plummeted.

You sat down slowly at the edge of the bed, candlelight flickering beside you, and unfolded the single sheet.

The paper crackled. His scent clung to it faintly—gunpowder and pine. Your eyes moved across the words, each one a punch to the chest.

My girl,

I don’t have the right to call you that no more. But I reckon it’s the only way I know how to start this.

I’m alive. For now. The job in Blackwater went bad. Real bad. Dutch had it all wrong—we all did. Pinkertons were waitin’. There was shootin’. Screamin’. We barely got out. Some didn’t. I don’t even know how we made it north, but we did. We’re holed up now, somewhere cold and cruel, and Dutch is already talkin’ about what comes next.

I know I said I’d come back. I meant it. Every word. But if I come back now, they’ll follow me. And they’ll find you. You and the baby. And I can’t risk that. I won’t.

So I’m stayin’ away. For your safety. For the baby's. It ain’t what I want, but it’s the only way I can think to protect you now. I don’t know how long we’ll be runnin’. Maybe forever. Maybe not long at all.

I think about you every day. About the cabin. The way you looked at me that night by the fire, like I could be somethin’ better. I wish I’d held onto that longer.

I’m sorry.

If I find a way to make it right, I’ll come back. But don’t wait for me. Don’t put your life on hold. Raise that baby strong. Tell them I was a fool, but I loved them all the same.

Tell them I loved you.

— Arthur

You sat still long after you finished reading, the letter clenched in your fists, its paper crumpling under the weight of your grief.

Outside, the wind stirred the trees. Somewhere in the woods, a bird sang—lonely and far away.

You stood slowly and crossed to the fire, feeding a fresh log to the flames. The letter stayed in your hand.

You wanted to scream. To cry. To curse his name for leaving, even if it was for all the right reasons. You wanted to rip the letter in half.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you read it again.

And again.

Until the candle burned low and the light outside dimmed to blue and indigo.

That night, you lay in bed curled on your side, one hand resting on your stomach. The baby shifted beneath your touch—a quiet reminder that life, no matter how uncertain, still moved forward.

You thought about Arthur’s face the last time you saw it. The way he kissed your hand, the way his voice trembled when he made that promise.

He meant it. Of that, you had no doubt.

But the world had never been kind to men like Arthur Morgan. Men who tried to claw their way out of darkness for the sake of something gentle. The cruel truth was that he hadn’t broken his promise because he stopped loving you. He’d broken it because he loved you too much to bring his hell to your doorstep.

In the days that followed, you kept moving. You fixed the fence he started. You tended the garden he’d helped dig. You patched the leaking corner of the roof, your belly growing heavier with each passing week. Your back growing painful with the new weight of your baby. 

But part of you had gone quiet again.

Not dead. Just waiting. Like the creek under frost.

The letter stayed in your drawer, folded neatly beside the others. You’d reach for it sometimes—never to read, only to hold. Like maybe, if you pressed it close enough to your chest, you could still feel the warmth of his hands. Still feel the echo of his voice, whispering words he may never get to say again.

Spring soon turned to the start of summer, and the green world bloomed around the cabin in quiet defiance of your solitude.

The trees stretched tall and full, the days long and golden. Bees danced through the lavender you’d planted by the front step. A pair of robins nested in the rafters beneath the porch roof, their soft chirps a constant reminder that life pressed on, regardless of heartbreak.

You moved slower now. The weight in your belly grew heavier by the day, until even simple tasks left you breathless. You’d catch your reflection in the small mirror hanging near the wash basin and barely recognize yourself—hair messy, face flushed, hands always cradling your swollen stomach like you were afraid to let go.

You talked to the baby sometimes. When the nights got too quiet. When the wind rattled the shutters and your back ached from tossing in bed.

You told them stories—about their father, about the cabin, about the fireflies that blinked like stars in the meadow after sundown. Sometimes you laughed. Sometimes you cried. Sometimes you just pressed your hand to your belly and whispered,

"I hope you don’t feel as alone as I do."

Her name was May. You met her in Strawberry, during a rare trip to town in early June. A trip you’d put off too long, your supplies running low, your body already straining. She was older—widow-gray hair wrapped in a tight bun, hands like leather, eyes as sharp as flint. She saw you struggling to load a sack of flour into your wagon and took one look at your belly before she tutted under her breath and stepped in.

“You shouldn’t be liftin’ that. Not in your condition.”

You blinked at her, caught off guard. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” she replied curtly, but not unkindly. “Come. I’ll help you finish your errands, and then you’ll come have tea with me. Unless you want to be one of those fools who gives birth in the dirt alone like some wild animal.”

Despite yourself, you chuckled. And then, unexpectedly, you went.

May lived in a small cottage at the edge of Strawberry, vines creeping up the stone walls, a garden teeming with color and smell. Her house was warm and full of clutter—books, candles, knitted blankets folded over chairs. She brewed strong tea. Gave you a bar of handmade soap and a pouch of dried herbs to help with your back. She asked no questions about the father of your child, and you were grateful. You visited her once a week after that.

She showed you how to ease swollen ankles in cold water. How to soothe your cramps with peppermint and lavender oil. How to listen to your body when the baby shifted and dropped. When you told her how far along you were, she nodded and began visiting you at the cabin, walking the half-mile trail from town with a wicker basket in hand and stories about her late husband on her lips.

“It’s not about pain,” she said one afternoon, as you sat on the porch with your feet soaking in a bucket. “It’s about power. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

You stared at her, brow furrowed. “What if I’m not strong enough?”

May looked you dead in the eye.

“You already are.”

The first contraction came in the middle of the night.

You woke with a start, the pain twisting low and hard like a rope being pulled tight inside you. You doubled over, gasping, one hand on the wall to steady yourself. You lit the lantern. Counted the minutes between the waves. Each one stronger than the last. By dawn, you knew it was time.

You sent your loyal hound hurrying down the trail, tail tall, a note pinned to her collar: “It’s happening. Please come.”

May arrived before sun rise, already rolling up her sleeves.

What followed was a blur of breath and sweat and pain that reached down to the bone. Hours passed in a haze of heat and tears. May barked calm orders, pressed cool cloths to your forehead, whispered encouragement like spells.

“You’re almost there. That’s it. You’re doing fine. Keep going.”

And you did.

Because there was no other choice.

Because you weren’t just giving birth to a child. You were giving birth to a future Arthur might never see, but that you would carry for him.

The baby arrived just after sunset, as the sky went soft and lilac beyond the trees. A scream—yours—and then a cry that split the air like thunder. May lifted the child, wrapped them in a soft linen blanket, and placed them gently in your arms. You stared down at the tiny face, flushed and squirming, their cries already fading to soft hiccups against your skin.

A boy.

You felt it then—all of it. Joy. Relief. Grief so sharp it stole the breath from your lungs.

You traced your fingers across his damp hair, whispered his name—a name you’d chosen weeks ago, when hope still burned a little brighter.

Arthur Alexander Morgan. You decided he’d go by his middle name. 

The tears came fast and hot, slipping silently down your cheeks as you held your boy close. You wanted him there. You wanted his voice, his hands, his steady calm. You wanted him to see the way Alexander clung to your finger. The way his little chest rose and fell. The way he already had his father’s brow. But there was only the firelight, and May’s quiet footsteps, and your own sobs muffled into a blanket as you whispered through the ache in your chest,

"You should’ve been here."

The days came slowly after the birth.

Not gentle—never gentle—but steady, like the tide. Predictable in their routine. Wake. Feed. Rock. Change. Sleep, if you were lucky. Repeat.

Your world shrank to the size of your cabin and the woods beyond it. The creek, now swollen with summer rains, offered a lullaby for quiet nights when Alexander wouldn’t stop crying. You walked him up and down the porch, whispering lullabies against his tiny ear, pressing your lips to his soft scalp, breathing him in like he was the only real thing left in a world that had gone silent.

And in a way, he was.

You still whispered Arthur’s name sometimes. Quietly, like a sin. Like a prayer.

You still kept the letter tucked in your drawer, edges curled and worn soft from being unfolded so many times. You’d memorized it now. Every crooked word. The apology he’d poured into ink. You didn’t cry anymore when you read it. Not like you used to. But you still felt it, like a bruise under your ribs—tender when touched.

Alexander grew fast. Too fast. He had Arthur’s eyes. You saw it more every day. That dusky blue that sometimes looked gray in the shade, piercing and soft all at once. He furrowed his little brow when he was focused, just like his father. Made a low, thoughtful noise when he was frustrated. His hands—God, his hands—were already shaping to be big like Arthur’s, even in miniature. It was like living with a ghost. A sweet, smiling ghost who learned to crawl, then walk, then toddle across the porch to chase butterflies in the tall grass. And every time you looked at him, your heart broke just a little, pieced itself back together, and broke again.

Because Arthur wasn’t here. Because he was supposed to be.

You stopped expecting him around the six-month mark.

Not that you’d given up hope. Not entirely. But something inside you shifted the day you caught yourself leaving the front gate open. A habit you’d built after his letter came. A silent offering. A beacon. You stood at the edge of the trail that morning, Alexander on your hip, the wind stirring the hem of your skirt. The trees swayed overhead, and for a moment—just a single, stupid moment—you thought maybe you’d hear the thrum of hooves. The jingle of tack. The familiar silhouette riding up from the woods.

But there was nothing. Just wind and birdsong. The rustle of a squirrel darting up a trunk. And it hit you, then. He wasn’t coming back. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he’d died somewhere out in the world, a bullet in the dark, no name on his grave. Or maybe he was still alive, running, hiding, surviving—whatever the gang had become now that Blackwater had blown them to pieces. You didn’t know what was worse: thinking he was gone forever, or thinking he was still out there… choosing not to return.

You started closing the gate again.

You packed the letter in a wooden box along with the first blanket Alexander had been swaddled in, a broken feather Arthur had tucked behind your ear once, and the silver ring he’d left on your nightstand before the Blackwater job. You stopped going into Strawberry as often. May still visited, sometimes bringing books or biscuits or idle gossip about some cattle rustler passing through. You smiled, nodded, listened. But your heart stayed quiet. The silence didn’t hurt as much anymore. It just… was.

You sat with him under the birch tree beside the creek when Alexander was 11 months old, planning his first birthday. The grass had grown wild around the large birch tree. He giggled, blue eyes sparkling, without any worries. And you laughed with him. Genuine. Loud. The kind of laugh that felt strange leaving your mouth after so long. You kissed his forehead and held him tight, even as he squirmed to chase a dragonfly. “I wish he could see you,” you whispered, not for the first time. But this time, your voice didn’t shake.

You didn’t stop loving Arthur. You knew you never would. But love—real love—wasn’t always enough to keep someone by your side. Not in the world you came from. Not with the choices you’d both made. So you loved him the only way you could now: by surviving. Like he asked of you. By raising the son he never got to meet. By building a life out of quiet mornings, muddy boots, and lullabies. You’d made peace with your grief. Not because it left, but because you learned to live beside it. Like a scar. Like a shadow. Like the memory of a man named Arthur Morgan, who once rode away with a promise on his lips… and left behind a piece of himself in your arms.

The air smelled like moss and the river, and the breeze carried just enough of the summer heat.

Alexander sat beside you, legs splayed in the grass, a small wooden horse clutched in one chubby fist. He was babbling to himself, brow furrowed in concentration as he dragged the toy through the dirt like it was galloping across plains only he could see. You leaned your head back against the tree, half listening, half dreaming. You hadn’t slept much the night before—he’d woken with a fever that thankfully passed by dawn, but the worry had left its mark. The days were long, and you carried all of them alone.

You didn’t hear the footsteps. Not at first. But you felt them. The weight in the air shifted—heavy, like a storm building behind clear skies. The hairs on your arms stood up. The silence bent around something.

Someone.

And when you opened your eyes—

He was there.

Arthur.

You stared at him for a heartbeat too long, not believing what you saw. Not wanting to. Not daring. He stood at the edge of the clearing, hat in hand, shoulders sloped forward like the world had tried to crush him and nearly succeeded. His coat hung loose on him. His eyes were sunken. His skin—what you could see of it—was pale, waxy, like a candle burned down too low. His chest moved with short, shallow breaths. And even at this distance, you could tell he was struggling to stand upright.

You didn’t remember getting up. You just remember running. Across the grass, heart pounding in your ears. He flinched like he thought you might slap him—or worse. But you didn’t. You wrapped your arms around him, hard and fast, like the earth might steal him away again if you didn’t anchor him here. He tensed. Then, slowly, carefully, he wrapped his arms around you. One hand at your back. The other hovering, trembling. You felt the way he shook. The way he pressed his cheek to your hair, his breath catching in his throat like it hurt to hold on.

“I missed you,” you whispered, voice breaking, fighting back tears. “I thought—God, I thought you were dead.”

“I should be,” he rasped, the words barely there. “But I ain’t. Not yet.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

His eyes were the same. Blue as ever. But there was a tiredness behind them now, so much deeper than before. Not just exhaustion—acceptance. Like he’d stopped fighting something he knew he couldn’t outrun.

You lifted a hand to his cheek and he leaned into it before stepping back, coughing once into his sleeve. He looked toward the tree where Alexander sat in the grass, blinking up at the new stranger. Arthur’s eyes softened. And then filled with something you hadn’t seen in them in a very long time.

Wonder.

“Is that…?” His voice faltered.

You nodded. “That’s your son.”

Arthur stared. The wind caught his coat, and he swayed where he stood, but his gaze never left the boy. Alexander tilted his head, curious, then clambered to his feet and toddled toward you with wide, bright eyes. Arthur watched every step like it might shatter him.

“He looks just like you,” you said quietly, voice as unsteady as ever.

Arthur took a shaking breath, his jaw working.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to… be gone so long. But after Blackwater… the Pinkertons… things went bad. I figured stayin’ away was the only way to keep you safe.”

You said nothing at first, letting the wind answer for you. Still, under all the pain and deterioration, he was as beautiful as the first day you saw him. 

Then Alexander reached your side, grabbing the hem of your dress and peeking up at Arthur with the hesitant curiosity only small children possess. You picked him up, pressing his head to your shoulder. Arthur’s hands clenched into fists. His chest rose, fell, rose again, like he was fighting the urge to cry. Or collapse.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see him,” he said. “Didn’t think I’d see either of you again. But I—” His voice cracked. “I couldn’t go without meetin’ my boy. I had to see him. See you.”

You stepped toward him, slowly.

“You’re sick,” you said. Not accusing. Just truth. Your heart ached for him.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Dyin’?”

He hesitated. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Not long now. I don’t reckon.”

You reached out, your fingers brushing his sleeve. He looked so tired. So hollowed out. Like something had been burned away in him, but the ember still smoldered.

Alexander squirmed in your arms, reaching a hand toward Arthur, fingers outstretched like he knew—like he felt the tether. Arthur looked down at his son’s hand like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever seen. And then he broke. Not loud. Not messy. Just a single tear slipping down his cheek, his voice thick with sorrow and awe.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “For not bein’ here. For missin’ everything. You didn’t deserve that. He didn’t either.” 

You reached out, pressing Alexander’s tiny hand into Arthur’s. It finally felt like your family was complete, even if it was on borrowed time. 

The days that followed blurred into a soft, dreamlike haze — too tender, too precious, and too fragile to fully hold.

Arthur stayed.

He didn’t ask if he could. He didn’t need to. You made up the bed with shaking hands that first night and watched him fall asleep beside the fire, bundled in blankets that barely kept his trembling at bay. His breath came rough, rattling in the quiet hours when you couldn’t sleep, and each cough that shook his body tore something from your chest.

But still, he stayed.

And you cherished him in ways that didn’t need words.

You cooked for him, quietly setting small bowls of stew or porridge beside his chair. You laid Alexander in his arms when the boy reached out with chubby fingers and babbled “Dada” like it had always been part of his world. You didn’t flinch when Arthur staggered, when he had to lean against the table just to catch his breath. You held his hand as he sat out on the porch in the evenings, watching the summer’s light sink behind the trees.

Sometimes, you pretended he wasn’t dying.

Sometimes, you let yourself believe he might stay.

But at night, when he coughed into his pillow and curled inward like he could hide the sickness in his bones, reality clawed its way back in.

You were losing him.

Piece by piece.

And there was nothing you could do.

It was the fourth night when he finally told you how it all happened.

You sat together by the fire. Alexander was asleep in the back room, his little body wrapped in quilts, one thumb in his mouth. The house was quiet. So quiet.

Arthur stirred the mug in his hand, not drinking. His eyes were far away, like he was watching ghosts.

“It was down in Valentine,” he said finally. His voice was rough. Worn thin. “Had to collect some debt from a fella… Thomas, his name was. Died not long after I beat him half to death. And I—” He paused, coughed into his fist, then kept going. “I started feelin’ bad not long after. Sick. Couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t ride long without spittin’ blood. Guess that’s what I get for hurtin’ a family that needed help.”

You turned toward him, heart caught in your throat.

He wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“Doctor told me it was tuberculosis down in Saint Denis. Said there weren’t nothin’ to be done. Just… wait it out. Die slow.”

The words hit like cold steel in your gut. You pressed a hand to your mouth, eyes brimming.

“I’m sorry,” he added, and it shattered something in you.

“Stop,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Don’t apologize. Don’t—don’t do that.”

But he did. Again and again, like a man trying to confess every sin before the reaper came knocking.

You broke then, curling into yourself, sobbing in a way you hadn’t since the night he’d left for Blackwater. Arthur reached for you, gently, his arms weak but still familiar. You buried your face in his chest, careful of his breathing, and let yourself fall apart.

“I thought I was ready,” you choked. “To raise Alexander alone. To let go. But now you’re here and I’m not ready. I don’t want to say goodbye. I don’t want it to end like this. I want us to be a family.”

Arthur’s hand moved slowly up your back.

“I want that too,” he said softly. “More than anything. I’ve dreamed about it, y’know? Every night, since I left. You. Him. This little place in the woods. No Dutch. No runnin’. Just peace.” He kissed your hair. “But the truth is, I’m runnin’ outta time. I came back 'cause I couldn’t… I couldn’t leave this world without seein’ you again. Without meetin’ my son. But I can’t give you what you deserve. Not for long.”

You pulled back to look at him, your face wet, your hands trembling as they held his.

“Then give me what you can,” you said. “Just… whatever time we have. Don’t spend it apologizing. Don’t pull away. Just be here. With us.” You nearly begged.

Arthur smiled, tired but warm. “You always were better than me,” he whispered. “Knew how to love when I was too scared to.”

You leaned in and kissed him. Gentle, aching. A kiss filled with every unspoken promise, every memory, every dream you’d built in the quiet spaces of your heart. No fear. 

And he kissed you back.

That night, Arthur held Alexander in his lap by the fire, humming a soft song you didn’t recognize. His voice was rough, but steady. The baby stared up at him, transfixed, one hand curled around his father’s finger.

You stood in the doorway and watched them, trying to memorize the moment. The shape of Arthur’s face in the firelight. The curve of his smile. The way his thumb stroked slow circles against Alexander’s tiny hand.

You wanted to bottle it. Bury it. Keep it forever.

But time wasn’t kind.

Time was never kind.

You could feel it before he said the words.

The distance in his eyes, the quiet grief he tried to bury behind soft smiles and trembling hands. The way he lingered outside in the evenings, staring out at the tree line long after the sun had dipped beneath the horizon. He was still here — in body — but you could feel him slipping away, like water through your fingers.

The sixth morning, you found him on the porch before the sky had turned gray with dawn. His coat was drawn tight across his hunched shoulders, his hat low, the air around him heavy with the scent of dew and woodsmoke. He didn’t turn when you stepped out beside him.

“I have to go,” he said. Quiet. Like the trees were listening.

You didn’t answer at first. Just let the words sink in.

“I’ve thought on it,” he went on, his voice rougher than usual, laced with that familiar rasp. “Long and hard. And I don’t wanna leave. God knows I don’t. But I’ve got… responsibilities. Loose ends with the gang. Things I gotta try and make right.”

You folded your arms around yourself, the morning air biting through your thin sleeves. “Arthur, you’re dying.”

“I know.” He nodded, still not looking at you. “And that’s just it. I ain’t got much time left. But if I stay here… if I get you or Alex sick—if I bring the Pinkertons to your door—I won’t be able to live with myself. I’ve seen what they’re capable of. And I ain’t about to risk either of you for my own comfort.”

You felt the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, hot and unwelcome. You swallowed them down. “You promised you’d come back,” you said.

He turned then.

There was something shattering in his expression. Not just guilt — grief. The kind that lives deep in a man’s bones, where no apology can reach.

“I meant it,” he said. “And I’m here now, ain’t I? But I also promised to keep you safe. And I can’t do that if I’m dyin’ under your roof. Or if I lead them bastards here. They’re still after us. After Dutch. After me.”

You stepped forward, clutching his coat lapels in trembling fists. “So that’s it?” you whispered. “You’re leaving… again?”

“I wouldn’t if I had a choice.”

You looked up at him — at the man who had returned to you broken, thinner than he’d ever been, but still him. The man who had made your son smile. The man you still loved.

“I want more time,” you said, voice shaking. “I know that’s selfish. But I want another morning. Another day. I want him to remember you.”

Arthur cupped your cheek, thumb brushing away the tear that finally fell.

“I know, darlin’,” he murmured. “I want that too.”

That evening, the sky bled orange and violet across the ridgeline. A storm brewed on the far horizon, thunder rumbling low like the growl of some distant animal. You watched it come in from the porch, Arthur sitting beside you, legs stretched out, a blanket across his lap to keep off the creeping cold.

Alexander curled against his father’s side, giggling softly as Arthur lifted his toy horse in slow, deliberate swoops, making tired, wheezing horse noises.

You made supper — rabbit stew and cornbread, just the way he liked it — and Arthur ate what little he could, forcing it down between ragged breaths. He winced every so often, pressing a hand to his ribs, but he smiled when you offered him more tea, when you ran your fingers through his hair.

You tucked Alexander into bed together that night.

Arthur sat on the edge of the mattress, calloused hands brushing back your son’s hair, eyes shining in the candlelight. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the boy’s forehead, lingering there a moment longer than needed.

“Be good for your ma, alright?” he whispered, voice thick.

Alexander didn’t understand. Not fully. But something in your silence must have spoken for you, because he clung to Arthur’s shirt for a long time before sleep finally took him.

Later, when the house had gone still and the rain tapped gently against the windows, you sat together in front of the dying fire, wrapped in silence and the weight of goodbye.

Arthur reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something small — a folded scrap of paper, worn at the edges. He handed it to you.

You opened it slowly.

A sketch. You recognized his hand immediately. Charcoal lines, soft and smudged: a small cabin under the trees. A porch. A swing. A family.

You. Him. Alexander.

A dream he’d never stopped carrying.

“I drew that in camp,” he said softly. “Kept it in my pocket. Every time things got bad, I’d pull it out. Remember what I was fightin’ for.”

You pressed the paper to your chest, eyes burning. “Why can’t it be real?”

He looked at you then — really looked. With everything in him.

“It is real,” he whispered. “Just… not forever. But I had it. I had you. I had my boy. Even if it was only for a few days… I’ll carry that with me. Always.”

You climbed into his lap then, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, careful not to press too hard against his ribs. He held you there, breathing you in like you were the last thing on earth that felt right.

And you stayed that way for a long time, wrapped in each other and the quiet hum of a life that could have been.

The goodbye didn’t come easy.

You’d both known it was coming, had been dancing around the edges of it since that morning on the porch. But the hours passed too quickly, slipping through your fingers like river water. No matter how tight you held on, you couldn’t stop the sun from rising again. Couldn’t stop Arthur from saddling his horse in the dark before dawn.

He moved slowly, not from hesitation but from the weight of his own bones. Each breath came labored now, his coughs quieter but deeper, rattling in his chest like something shaking loose. His skin had taken on a paler shade, lips thinner, the hollows under his eyes darker with exhaustion he could no longer outrun.

You stood on the porch barefoot, holding Alexander, wrapped in one of Arthur’s old flannel shirts — the one that still smelled like him, like leather and campfire smoke. The baby shifted against you, blinking sleepily, unaware of what was being taken from him.

Arthur stepped forward, reins in one hand, the other clenched at his side like it hurt to let go.

You didn’t speak at first. Couldn’t.

Instead, you stared at each other — memorizing. Burning every inch of him into your mind: the curve of his nose, the gray in his beard, the sadness behind those blue eyes. He was still the man you loved. Still the man who had held your hand during the hard nights, who had returned against all odds just to meet his son. But you could see the farewell in the way he stood, chest rising slow and uneven, lips pressed into a thin line to keep from trembling.

“I ain’t gonna make it back,” he said softly, breaking the silence.

You felt it then — your throat closing, your breath catching. “Don’t say that.”

Arthur’s jaw tensed. He looked away, toward the line of trees beyond the fence.

“If I could stay,” he said, quieter now, “you know I would. If I didn’t have this… thing rottin’ me from the inside out—if the Pinkertons weren’t huntin’ us—I’d be here. With you. With him.”

You stepped forward, voice cracking. “Then stay anyway. We’ll hide. We’ll disappear. I don’t care where we go. Just… don’t leave, Arthur.”

His breath hitched. You saw it in the way he blinked too fast, looked up at the sky like maybe it could give him strength. He reached out slowly, fingers brushing your cheek. His thumb caught a tear before it slipped down.

“I want that,” he said, his voice so low you barely heard it. “More than anything. But I can’t live with myself if I run and leave John behind. He’s got Abigail. Jack. They still got a chance. And Dutch… he’s lost. I can’t save him, but I can help the ones who still got hope.”

You shook your head, tears falling fast now, shoulders beginning to shake. “What about us? Don’t we get hope?”

He looked at you then, eyes glassy, rimmed red with unshed tears.“You and Alex… you gave me somethin’ to come back for. You gave me peace. For a little while, I felt like I had a home.”

Your knees buckled, and he caught you before you could fall, wrapping you into him.

You sobbed into his chest, clinging so tightly to his coat that your knuckles ached. The tears came in waves — all the fear, the sorrow, the heartbreak you’d buried these last days spilling out like floodwaters. He held you through it, his own shoulders trembling as he buried his face into your hair. You felt the warmth of a few tears against your scalp — hot, silent — and it shattered you all over again.

“I can’t do this alone,” you whispered.

“Yes, you can,” he said. “You already have. And you’ll do it again. For him.”

You looked down at Alexander — now awake, squirming in your arms, reaching toward Arthur with tiny hands.

Arthur reached out and took him, arms shaking but sure. The baby nestled into his chest immediately, resting his head right over Arthur’s heart like he knew exactly where he belonged.

“I’m sorry, little man,” Arthur choked out, holding his son tight. “I’m so damn sorry I couldn’t be more for you.”

Alexander whimpered softly, then began to cry, sensing the shift, the pull of something coming undone. Arthur blinked rapidly, brushing his nose against his boy’s soft hair, cradling him like porcelain.

It took everything you had to take Alexander back, the child clawing at Arthur’s shirt, not understanding why he was being pulled away. He reached for him again and again, and Arthur turned his face away, biting his lip to keep from sobbing.

You stepped forward, once more, and cupped his face.

“If you survive this,” you whispered, “come home to me.”

He nodded. “If I can… I will.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise,” he said, lips brushing your forehead. You nodded through your tears, though your heart screamed otherwise.

Then he pulled you in, one last time, and kissed you like he’d never kissed you before — full of everything he hadn’t said, everything he couldn’t. It was desperate and slow and full of pain, the kind of kiss you never forget. One you feel for the rest of your life.

When he pulled away, he left part of himself with you.

Arthur mounted his horse slowly, glancing back once, twice.

And then he rode off into the trees, the early morning mist swallowing him whole.

And you stood there in the doorway, clutching your crying child to your chest, the last of your heart galloping into the forest.

Time passed in quiet, uneven measures.

Morning became your anchor. The rhythm of the stove crackling to life, of Alexander’s little footsteps echoing through the cabin like music. You marked the days by his growth. The first time he said dog, then cat, then horse. The first day he ran off at full speed down the beaten path-hair blowing through his curls, you in a frenzy to catch the wild boy. Each moment carved into your memory like tally marks on the wall. But Arthur didn’t return.

Every sunrise without the sound of hooves on the path chipped away at your hope, just a little more. You tried to tell yourself he was still out there. Still breathing. Still fighting. That he had kept his promise, and one day you’d see his shadow cast long across the porch again.

But deep down — in the aching, wordless place inside your chest — you knew.

He was gone.

You mourned him slowly, the way women do when they have no grave to stand over. No final words. No body to bury. Just an old flannel shirt hanging on the back of a chair, worn edges and all. Just a drawing of a cabin and a dream tucked safely in your nightstand drawer. Just the echo of his voice in the way your son laughed.

And even still… you waited.

Autumn came gently.

The trees flamed in shades of gold and rust, their leaves spiraling down from the canopy like bits of sun. You harvested what you could from the small garden out back, chopped firewood until your hands blistered, and kept the cabin warm with extra quilts as the days grew shorter.

Alexander was a well over a year old now — wide-eyed and wild-haired, with Arthur’s smile stamped plainly across his little face, proud as can be. He liked to toddle over to the fence line and stare out into the woods, as if he was waiting for something.

Like he remembered.

Like he knew.

It was late afternoon when it happened. The sky was pale and streaked with thinning clouds, the scent of damp earth and dying leaves thick in the air.

You were outside, hanging a blanket on the line, Alexander crawling at your feet. The wind stirred just enough to carry the soft crunch of hooves from down the path.

Your head snapped up.

Your breath caught in your chest.

There — beyond the trees — a figure on horseback. Alone. Moving slow, as if weary from long travel.

You stood still, squinting, heart hammering in your ribs. You knew Arthur’s gait on a horse. The curve of his shoulders. The way he leaned forward like he was always chasing something.

This man… wasn’t him.

He rode different. Straighter. Leaner. And as he got closer, you saw a wide-brimmed hat and the worn duster of a younger man. His horse was familiar, though — dark, with a white blaze down the nose.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

John.

He stopped a few feet from the porch, tipping his hat, his face somber beneath the shadow of the brim.

“Miss,” he said, voice low and gravelly.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t.

He dismounted slowly, walking forward with that signature limp, eyes flicking to Alexander — who had gone still in the grass, staring up at the stranger like he understood too much for his age.

“Thought I’d check in,” John said quietly. “Been a long time.”

You swallowed. “You came alone.”

He nodded. “Ain’t nobody left to come with.

The world went quiet. The wind shifted. Your throat tightened. You looked at him, there was something heavy in his gaze. Something final.

And you knew.

He didn’t have to say it. He didn’t want to say it. But you saw the truth in the sorrow that pooled in his eyes.

Arthur was gone.

You don’t remember falling, but you must have, because your knees hit the earth and the cold bled up through your skin like water through cloth. You doubled forward, hands gripping your skirt, trying to pull breath into lungs that didn’t want to work.

John dropped beside you, catching your arm with rough fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice cracking in a way you hadn’t expected.

You shook your head, tears spilling freely now. You didn’t care. You couldn’t. The pain came in waves — thick and violent, laced with every night you’d spent staring out the window, hoping to see him coming back to you.

“He—he said he’d come home,” you managed to whisper, choking on the words. “He promised.”

John’s jaw tightened. “He wanted to. He fought for that. ‘Til the end.”

You turned your face into your hands, trying to muffle the sob that tore free from your chest.

John sat with you. He didn’t try to tell you it would be alright. He didn’t offer hollow comforts. He just sat there, his hand on your shoulder, the only witness to the breaking of a heart that had been holding out far too long.

Alexander wobbled forward, confused by your crying, small hands reaching for you. You pulled him into your lap and buried your face in his curls, breathing him in.

“He looks like him,” John said after a moment. “Spittin’ image.”

You nodded against your son’s soft hair. “He deserved to meet him like this. Healthy. Whole.” You managed. 

“I think he was,” John murmured. “For a while. With you. You gave him peace… more than most of us ever got.”

You sat there until the sun slipped lower, until the light turned gold behind the trees and the wind grew colder.

John stayed beside you.

And though it wasn’t the man you’d prayed to see again… he brought the weight of Arthur’s love in his silence. A shared grief that lived between them, now passed on to you. A reminder that Arthur Morgan had lived. And that he had come back — even if it was only once.

John stood there for a long moment, glancing between you and the boy cradled against your chest. His face was solemn, weathered from too much death, too much running, too many goodbyes. Then, slowly, he turned his attention to the small child. Alexander looked up from your arms, curious but cautious. He was too young to know the full meaning of grief, but he felt the tension, the silence, the way your body trembled when you held him.

John crouched low in the grass in front of him. “Hey, little man,” he said gently, voice cracking just slightly. “You don’t know me, but… I’m your uncle John. I used to ride with your pa. We were family, him and me.”

He reached into his satchel and pulled something out — something you hadn’t expected, something you weren’t prepared to see.

Arthur’s hat.

Worn, dusty, wide-brimmed and familiar. The sight of it knocked the air out of your lungs. You bit down on a sob, knuckles white where you clutched the hem of Alexander’s shirt.

John held it out and gently placed it over the boy’s head. It was far too big — it fell over his eyes and nearly swallowed his whole head — but Alexander laughed, a pure little sound, and tugged at the brim with both hands.

John smiled, though there was something deeply mournful behind his eyes. “That was your pa’s,” he said. “He wore it every damn day. Through rain, snow, blood, and fire. Reckon it’s yours now. You keep it safe, alright?”

Alexander blinked up at him, then babbled something unintelligible — some mix of sound and joy — and carefully walked toward John with his arms open.

You covered your mouth with your hand and turned away, the grief swelling in your chest like a storm surge. It hurt — God, it hurt — to see something of Arthur in your son that wasn’t just a smile or a freckle. It was a piece of him, worn and passed on, a legacy held in cotton and sweat and old leather.

You didn’t realize you were crying again until the taste of salt hit your lips.

Eventually, you stood.

“Come inside,” you said, your voice hoarse from tears. “Please.”

John nodded and helped you gather Alexander. The hat stayed perched clumsily on the boy’s head as the three of you stepped into the warm cabin, where the hearth still glowed from the morning’s fire.

You sat down in the chair by the fire, holding Alexander against your chest. He was growing heavy now, his head drooping against your shoulder as sleep pulled at him.

John stood for a moment, glancing around the cabin. His gaze lingered on the little details: the hand-carved crib, the boots tucked by the door, the rifle resting above the mantle. Then, with careful hands, he pulled something from his satchel and stepped forward.

“I brought you this,” he said. “It’s his. Was his. He always kept it close.”

He handed you Arthur’s journal.

The leather was worn smooth from years of travel. You recognized it — you’d seen him scribble in it late at night, hunched over by firelight, mumbling half-formed thoughts and drawing pictures of birds and bison and flowers and distant mountains. The very last thing he ever owned that was truly his.

Your hands trembled as you took it.

John cleared his throat. “Last few pages… they were about you. And the kid. Didn’t mean to look but…”

You opened it slowly, carefully, afraid the moment might shatter if you breathed too loud.

There — in Arthur’s unmistakable, scratchy handwriting — were the final entries.

You traced his words with your fingers.

“I saw her again today. She had the boy in her arms, sittin’ under a tree. Looked like sunlight caught in her hair. Never seen anything so beautiful. I wanted to run to her, but I knew I shouldn’t… not right away. I’m sick. Didn’t want to bring danger to their door. But I needed to see ‘em. Needed to know they were alright.

Alexander’s got my eyes and he smiles like me — poor kid. He’s got a wild spirit. I can tell, even now. He’ll be strong. I hope he remembers me kindly, even if I ain’t there to teach him right from wrong.”

The tears came harder now, falling in thick, silent rivers. You turned the page and found the last entry.

“I ain’t got much time. Breathin’s hard. Nights are worse. But I’m glad I came back home. Glad I saw her. If there’s any justice in this world, maybe she’ll find peace. Maybe she’ll tell the boy about me — maybe not who I was, but who I tried to be in the end. It’s all I want.”

“I love her. More than I ever said. I hope she loved me too.”

That broke you.

You doubled forward, journal pressed against your chest like you could absorb the words, like they could bring him back if you held them tightly enough.

John stood quietly, letting you fall apart. When you looked up, his eyes were wet too — not sobbing, but heavy. Heavy with shared loss.

“He was a good man,” you whispered. “Flawed, stubborn… but good.”

John nodded. “The best of us, in the end.”

Eventually, the sun began to dip behind the hills, painting the walls of the cabin in gold.

John walked toward the door, pausing with his hand on the frame.

“I’ll check in from time to time,” he said. “Make sure you’re both alright. Arthur… he asked me to. Said if he didn’t make it, I was to look after you. Best I can.”

You nodded slowly, your voice caught in your throat.

“Thank you, John.”

He hesitated a moment longer, then tipped his hat and stepped outside, the door closing quietly behind him.

You stood in the middle of the room, Alexander asleep on your shoulder, Arthur’s journal pressed to your heart, the fire crackling low beside you.

The cabin was warm. Safe. But it felt emptier now than it ever had before.

You walked to the window and watched as John mounted his horse and disappeared down the path, swallowed up by the trees and the growing dusk.

And then, you were alone again.

You stared at the empty chair across from you. The one where Arthur had sat just months ago, brushing his fingers through your hair, telling you he’d do better. That he’d try.

You pressed your lips to Alexander’s head and whispered, “He did, baby. He really did.”

And though your heart was broken — shattered in places you didn’t know existed — you knew you would carry him. In memory. In love. In your son’s every breath.

It was late spring when you finally made the journey. The snow had melted from the hills, leaving behind rolling green meadows speckled with wildflowers and the early buzz of bees. The sun hung warm and low in the sky, stretching gold across the horizon as you followed the narrow trail winding through the trees, your son nestled on your hip.

Alexander had grown since John’s visit. His legs were longer, his eyes sharper, his laughter louder. Every day he looked more like Arthur. Every crooked smile, every tilt of his head, every stubborn little stomp of his feet when he didn’t get his way — it was all him.

You couldn’t stop seeing him in the boy. And it hurt.

You reached the ridge by mid-afternoon. The trail had thinned out, roots knotted beneath your boots and ferns brushing your skirt. You remembered the spot — John had marked it on a crumpled piece of paper, his handwriting rough and direct: Look for the overlook above the valley. Near the old pine, the one with the lightning scar.

You saw it before you even stepped clear of the trees.

The grave.

Modest. Quiet. Just as he would’ve wanted.

There was a cross, its planks hand-written and uneven, but with his name etched into it clear and clean: Arthur Morgan.

You stood still for a long while, heart hammering as though he might rise up from beneath the earth just to greet you.

But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

You let out a shaking breath and stepped forward, the weight of your son grounding you.

Alexander, curious, reached toward the cross. His fingers brushed the top of it gently, almost reverently, as if some part of him knew.

“This is your pa’,” you whispered to him. “He was a good man. The best man I ever knew.”

The wind stirred through the trees above, soft and steady. You lowered yourself to the ground, settling on your knees beside the grave, and let Alexander sit in your lap. He leaned his head against your chest, blinking slowly, the brim of his too-big hat — Arthur’s hat — dipping low over his brow.

You reached out and touched the stones that sat underneath the cross.

“I miss you,” you said softly, throat closing around the words. “Every single day.”

Your eyes stung, but you kept going.

“You should see him, Arthur. Our son. He’s smart. Brave. A little reckless, like you. He makes me laugh. Drives me crazy sometimes, too. But he’s… he’s everything.”

You drew in a trembling breath.

“He has your eyes. Your smile. Your soul. I see you in him more and more with each passing day. And God, Arthur… it hurts. It hurts so bad not having you here. I wanted you to be part of this. To see him grow up. To hold him, to teach him how to ride and track and… just be his father.”

The words cracked in your throat.

You reached into your satchel and pulled out a bundle of wildflowers — lupine and yarrow and tiny white daisies Alexander had helped you pick along the trail. With gentle fingers, you laid them on the grave, brushing away a few stray leaves that had gathered near the stones.

“I still love you,” you whispered. “I never stopped. Even when I told myself I should let go. Even when I knew you weren’t coming back… I still held on to you.”

You closed your eyes, letting the breeze move through your hair.

“I hope you found peace. I hope wherever you are, you're free of pain. I hope you know how hard you tried… and that you didn’t fail. Not with me. Not with Alexander. You gave us something worth carrying. And I’m thankful for the time we had, even if it wasn’t enough.”

Alexander stirred, glancing up at you, then at the stones. He pressed his tiny hand against them, and you couldn’t help but sob softly at the gesture.

“I love you,” you whispered again, your voice barely audible now. “Always.”

You stayed a while longer, sitting in the soft grass beneath the trees. The sun slipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the earth. Birds sang somewhere in the distance. And for a fleeting moment, you imagined he was there — just over your shoulder, watching the two of you with that quiet half-smile he wore when he thought no one was looking.

Eventually, you stood.

You adjusted Alexander in your arms, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and gave the grave one last glance.

One last goodbye.

And then you turned away and walked back toward the trail, your son holding tight to your shirt, the brim of Arthur’s hat bobbing slightly as you disappeared into the golden light of late spring.

Arthur Morgan was gone. But what he left behind — the love, the strength, the memory — lived on.

In you. In Alexander. In every step you took forward.

And the wind carried your final words back to the ridge:

"You’ll always be with us. No matter how far."

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

Oh, to be used and strained to the bone by this man, then taken care of 😤

The way you made him all devoted and loving, praising and giving love to every part of her... I'm melting 🫠 Needed this today, honestly. Keeping me going for a little longer💓 Thank you for writing and sharing dear! 🩹🩹

The Afterglow

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

Your hand curls around the wrought-iron bed frame, banging against the wall for several minutes. Maybe you’re doing it to muffle the sound, but more likely, you’re grasping the metal to keep yourself from collapsing face forward from where you’re on your knees.

Your knees shake, body roiling with every rough thrust into your sopping cunt. You pant, hair disheveled, seeing stars. You can’t count the number of times you’ve found your pleasure; you feel as wrung out as a washcloth on laundry day.

A large hand steadies you, spreading out below your navel, above where the curls of your pubic hair begin. Warm, strong, rough - it presses inward, and you sputter as your insides constrict as if your lover is trying to feel himself through your body.

“Good girl-” 

All you can respond with is a pitiful mewl. He’s on his knees behind you, all those hot, long, hard inches of him buried in your cunt. 

His hand snakes down further, through your dark hair, to right above, where he pierces you with his flesh. His trigger finger finds that hooded nub of nerves and circles at it in time with the thrusting of his hips.

“A-Ar-Arthur!” You cry out, wrecked, overstimulated. You clench around him with yet another bone-shattering orgasm, and your warm, liquid arousal gushes softly from your body onto him, wetting his curls each time he continually thrusts into you.

With one final, overwhelming moan, he slams his hips into yours animalistically before withdrawing, you whimper as suddenly you feel so empty.

The slick sounds of him pumping himself fill the bedroom, and he leans over you again, his front to your back - his forehead pressing lightly between your shoulder blades - and grunts loudly as you feel hot spurts of his pleasure land on the back of your thighs.

For moments, you remain there, holding onto the bed frame with one hand as one of his braces against your pelvis. You swear it's him keeping you from collapsing. His pants are loud behind you, and finally, after what seems like forever, he lets go of you, moving off the mattress and stepping ungainly toward the bowl of water on the bureau across the room. You hear him dip a washcloth into the basin and wipe himself clean.

You roll down onto the bed, your sore body wanting to curl in on itself. Laying on your side, a jolt goes through your smarting core, and you whimper quietly as you tuck your hand between your legs and close them tightly together.

Arthur drops the washcloth immediately and comes back to bed, sliding behind you and molding his body around yours, uncaring of his drying spend on your thigh now pressed against him.

“Y’alright?” Oh sweetheart-” he coos softly as he draws back errant strands of your hair from your face.

You don't turn toward him, remaining still as his fingers trail down your arm, gentle and soft.

“I just - don’t you wish you had someone who c’d keep up with you?” you whisper harshly, that self doubt creeping in. You could barely stay upright during the more passionate of your encounters. Sometimes the soreness from his cock cleaving into you has you telling him no to further lovemaking that day. The way you felt now, it seemed like it would be the case for the rest of the evening.

He had rented a hotel room and everything.

“Now you stop with that talk, darlin’ girl.”

His hand trails from your arm up to your collarbone then reaches your breast's swell. A gentle rub over your nipple makes you shiver before his hand engulfs it whole. “Perfect size.”

Arthur’s hand squeezes and kneads your breast for a moment as he leans over and presses his lips to your shoulder.

His hand moves downward to rest on your waist below your ribcage, “ ‘and here, perfect for me to grab, in bed or outside. Perfect for me to hold when you're sittin’ on my knee by the fire.”

“Yer so good t’ me.” He rumbles into your neck, and his hand traces lower, lower, until it reaches yours, tucked between your aching legs. Instead of pushing them open, he slides his hand over yours and pulls gently, just enough so that you remove your hand from between your thighs.

Your fingers intertwine, resting gently in that thatch of dark hair.

“ ‘nd here, I feel so safe and warm when I'm inside you.” 

He can’t see you roll your eyes, but you half turn your head to make yourself heard, “How could I possibly make you feel safe?” 

He was a foot gunslinger of muscle born of beating men and hard labor. One of the most fearsome men in the country. He certainly didn’t need protection, not from some flit of a woman like you.

“When I’m inside you… stripped of all my guns and everythin’’… I just…” he trails off, and you crane your neck to make eye contact with him.

His hand leaves yours and quickly cups your cheek. 

“Guess when I’m inside y’, I feel wanted. Like you’re takin’ me in and shieldin’ me with all of you.” He whispers.

Your brow crinkles, and you feel your eyes start to water over before you blink away unbidden tears. Turning around in his arms, you throw yours around his neck as you lean in to kiss him, and he fervently meets you halfway.

It’s several moments of this, of tongues pressing together, of breathing each other’s breath, of sweat-slicked skin plastered against each other.

When he finally pulls away, you cannot help but smile, placing your hand on his cheek. His scruffy beard tickles your palm.

“Now let me hold you for the rest of the night,” he says, a smile gracing his face.

Your eyes flit down to his lips again, and you see him smirk. Then you close your eyes, and his lips meet yours in the softest, most loving kiss.

[johnpriceslamb]

arthur morgan who reluctantly ties one of his girlfriend’s satin lace bows in his hat. Now his hat has a small little pink bow at the side, and when he zooms pass on his horse, ppl can just see a quick blur of pink on the top of his zooming figure

[girl-celestial]

Good to Me

ARTHUR MORGAN X FEMALE READER, semi-public. mdni

THE cool metal of his gun pressed against your upper thigh as he nudged your legs apart with one knee. His hands were already working hastily, bunching the fabric of your dress around your waist. Your back hit the rough exterior of the bar—though Arthur had the decency to bring you around to the shadowed side of the building, away from prying eyes. He peppered kisses carelessly along your neck, then lifted one of your legs so it hooked around his hip. The coarse denim of his jeans ground softly against your linen drawers, the friction making you ache.

Desperate for more of you, his calloused fingers fumbled with the lacing of your corset, distracted and clumsy against the delicate silk.

“Goddamn miracle you can do this all by yourself every day,” he muttered with a frustrated chuckle, his warm breath brushing your neck.

You slipped your hands between you, loosening the corset just enough for him to tug it down. Your breasts spilled over the rigid edge, flushed and full. He pressed one palm against the wall behind your head for balance as he leaned in, grinding his aching length against your wet center. He groaned low in his throat, beard rough against your throat, and rocked again—this time slower, deeper, enough to send your breath hitching. You could feel it in the way his brow knit that he needed this just as much as you did.

“Lord, woman, keep on like that and I’ll have spent myself,” he said with a crooked smile, glancing down at your body beneath him.

“Please, Arthur,” you breathed, and something in him snapped at the sound of your soft plea.

The innocence in your voice, the sinful curve of your breasts still exposed—he couldn’t hold back. With a swift motion, he turned you around, pressing your front against the cool wall. Your nipples grazed the brick as you braced your arms in front of you. He hiked your skirts up again and slipped your drawers down in one fluid motion. The moonlight caught the wetness between your thighs, and he gazed for a breath, greedy and reverent.

“Such a good girl,” he drawled.

You heard the buckle of his belt come loose. One rough hand cupped your hip as he guided himself to your entrance. He pushed in slowly at first, letting you feel every inch, then seated himself fully with a single, sure thrust. He stayed there for a moment, savoring the way your body wrapped around him, before finding his rhythm. Each slow, deep thrust rocked you forward against the wall. His hand rose to your chest, fingers catching on the curve of your exposed bosom as his pace grew more fervent.

“Quit runnin’ from me now,” he growled, hips clapping obscenely against your backside as he pulled you back into him.

“Look at you,” he said, voice thick with hunger. “Takin’ me like this where anyone could see.”

It was almost too much until one calloused finger found your swollen bud, rubbing fast, tight circles until your body trembled. Your legs gave a soft shake, and Arthur gripped your hips tighter, holding you steady as he drove into you without mercy.

“So perfect,” he panted. “So good to me.”

You glanced back just as he came, watching his face twist with pleasure. He dropped his head, his hat shadowing his eyes, his grip firm and grounding as he spilled inside you.

You stayed like that a moment, bodies pressed close, breath mingling in the cool night. Then, with surprising gentleness, his hands steadied you, tucking you into his chest. He straightened the dress he’d so thoroughly disheveled and gave you a lazy, satisfied smile.

“So good to me,” he said again, softer this time.

[moonshapedbox]

modern!au truck driver arthur headcanons

fluff, elements of arthur morgan x fem reader, very brief suggestiveness

a/n: AHHH i'm nervous ok i’ve written fics and drabbles & stuff before but i have never posted them…so this is my first time posting. big shout out to @rdr2enjoyer for her scrumptious modern au fic that started this idea in first place !!!! and to @cassievanlauritzen for even more ideas and inspiration, i’ve written this with her in mind <3 haven't written in so long so it feels like warming up. pouring my all of trucker knowledge into this + did tons of research just in case. sorry in advance if it's not super accurate or accidentally out of character. enjoy!

- he’d be a snack lover. when he stops at gas stations fuel up he stocks up on a ton of snacks, chips, candy, jerky, you name it. also drinks lots of coffee, sodas, really anything to keep him energized.

- additionally I feel like he’d be big on Buc-ee's. loves how clean the bathrooms are, he’d go in get washed up a bit (wash his face and forearms, combs his hair, etc). then he’d get a huge bbq brisket sandwich and a dr. pepper and eat it in his cab. probably has a small Buc-ee’s cup or thermos.

- on the same note abt eating habits-- would hands down eat while he's driving. type of guy to dip in his fries in a milkshake and devour it, his unwavering attention still on the road.

- would definitely have one of those hanging rear view mirror ornaments of a like deer or a horse.

- collects little trinkets from all the states he’s been to (keychains, shot glasses etc.) would buy you a small plushie and surprises you with it when he gets home.

- the type to call you on late nights and puts you on speaker phone when he’s tired. makes you to talk to him to keep him up until he can get to his next rest stop, “darlin’ you gotta keep me up for a lil while longer…tell me ‘bout ur day”

- the only phone he's got is a flip phone. he runs out of minutes a lot and he can’t get service most the time bc of rural areas he’s traveling thru, so he calls from a pay phone. he leans against the pay phone and pulls a drag from his cigarette while he listens you on the phone, “i’m okay hon, cellphone died again i’m sorry” he flicks the ash and waits for your response, “...what’s wrong baby?…. you ain’t gotta worry ‘bout me i’m fine. i can take care of myself don’t worry….”

- if there’s not a payphone available he’ll stop by a diner and use the landline, fidgeting with the cord while he talks to you, he hums and sighs to himself listening to you talk, “mhm, I know baby I miss you too…just wanted to hear that sweet voice of yours…been thinkin’ ‘bout you a lot…” he smiles to himself and looks down at his boots. “don’t cry sweet girl i’ll be home soon…in a couple days, ok?”

- when he finally does get home he’s handsy. he’s grabbing you every chance he can, he holds you in his big arms and pulls you close, snuggling into your neck and shoulders. “you have no idea how lonely it gets out how there sweetheart...” he pants into your neck, pressing warm open mouthed kisses on the underside of your jaw. “if only i could take you with me, you’d look so pretty sittin' in my passenger seat”

- he's a patient guy so he's not the type to road rage but i think he’d be a vocal complainer with the stupid ppl on the road. he's out on the road for so long that he can't help that his patience runs out sometimes. will throw up his hand in annoyance when ppl cut him off. he rests his temple against his hands in irritation, leans up to the wheel to get a better view “what the hell are we doin’...you gettin' over or not?” he grumbles to himself, “use you’re damn signal!”

- but it's quiet in the cab for the most part, it's just him and the soft hum of the road-- aside from answering the calls on the CB radio frequently.

- although it’s lonely out on the road, he gets homesick and he thinks about you a lot. the nights are even longer and more painful. some nights he doesn't mind the quiet but other nights it makes his soul ache a bit.

- the song “wichita lineman” by glen campbell….yeah it’s like that

- when he sleeps in his cab he’ll look out at the stars, it's really his only moment of the day he can truly zone out for a moment. he never gets tired of looking up at them. sometimes he'll allow himself one smoke before bed, he'll stand outside at night and breathe the fresh air, looking up at the night sky.

- similarly he loves all the scenery. one of the best parts of driving to him is traveling around, seeing how the sun sets and rises differently in every part of the country--but still equally as beautiful. it makes his heart soften, but he'd never tell anyone that

- always keeps his journal with him, writes down things that interest him. places he's been, people he's met, and so on.

- he’s always changing radio stations when it fades into static as he crosses county lines, has lots of CDs or cassettes just in case the radio doesn’t have anything good on or he can’t get rid of the static

- as for the CDs and cassettes— definitely classic rock guy and like old country/folk music (you know johnny cash, willie nelson, john denver type of stuff). is a sucker for ballads bc they express emotions he feels yet can’t explain in his own words :’)

── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

if there's anything u think i should add let me know and i might make a part 2 !!! thank u sm for reading :)

[rubyinked]

𑁍 Arthur Morgan x fem! Reader 𑁍

𖦹 summary: Arthur crafts a flower crown for you <3

𖦹 a/n: just a short pure fluff piece because I could not stop thinking of this concept

The sunlight beamed down on you, a warmth spreading throughout your body as you sprawled out on the grass, the light breeze making the temperature comfortable. Running your fingers through the long grass, you felt secure enough to close your eyes and relax. Arthur was nearby, his very presence made you feel safe and protected, like everything was right as long as you two were together. It was impossible to not love the man, the way he so deeply cared for you. You were sure that you spent most your days in camp with a lovesick smile plastered across your face, the mark of a new relationship just established. Even though it was new, your love for him ran so deep you were sure it would last forever. You’d follow him to the ends of the Earth and back.

Your thoughts were interrupted when a shadow fell over your face, opening your eyes and seeing Arthur standing over you, an almost sheepish look on your face. As you sat up, Arthur kneeled, his arms behind his back as if concealing something. “Now what were you doing over there?” You inquired, nodding your head towards the grassy patch where Arthur had been sitting a few feet away from you.

“Close yer eyes.” He instructed, a grin fighting its way onto his face. Arching an eyebrow, you did what he asked. You felt him place something on top of your head, and quickly opened your eyes, reaching for what he put on you. “Whoa, careful now.” He gently grabbed your hand, taking off what he’d placed on your head. A crown woven together with long strands of grass, adorned with colourful flowers lined along it. You could just barely make out the threads entwining the flowers together, colourful bursts of reds, purples and yellows.

“This is what you’ve been doing this whole time?” Your heart swelled up with joy, overwhelmed by the small kind gesture. You threw yourself at Arthur, nearly knocking him over as you hugged him, breathing him in deeply as you rested your face against his broad shoulder. “You sweetheart you.” Arthur pulled away, grabbing the flower crown from you, gingerly placing it upon your head once more.

“S’nothing. Just seein’ you with all these flowers got me thinkin’.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, moving to sit beside you. Instinctively, you leaned against him, his arm behind you, keeping your back supported.

“Oh yeah? Thinking of what?” You asked, watching the grass ripple throughout the field, flowers swaying in the wind. In the distance a singular deer was eating grass, a perfect scenery of serenity. It felt right for how peaceful you felt in this very moment.

“Of how beautiful you are. More than any flower in this godddamn field.” Kissing the top of your head, you melted in his grasp. It may be a hard life the two of you led, but in this moment it felt like everything was going to be okay.

[cinnamongrl2006]

I have a professor!Arthur morgan x female student!reader smut fic in drafts but idk if any of u guys would like it 😖😖

Edit: Posted it!!

[elfven-blog]

Deals with the Devil ain't so bad

Summary: Arthur Morgan became the devil's bounty hunter...but god does he miss you fiercly. Ghost Rider!Arthur Morgan x F!Reader CW: MDNI, 18+ Only, p in v, fingers, forest/public, nearly caught, fingers, flames used during. Is this technically monster? Word count: 2.9K

He remembers signing that contract like it was yesterday. Remembers how the wind felt against his breath as he looked at the sun rising, how he struggled to breath, the sound of his own raspy voice shaking as he took what should have been his last breath. How his lungs hurt, and his eyes watered from the realisation that this was it.

Then suddenly there was the man. He stood watching Arthur dying on that mountain, his hands wrapped on his cain and the silver skull glinted in the morning rays. His eyes were cold and his voice worse as he spoke “I can help you” was all he said. The outlaws' eyes flickering to the strange man. The corner of his mouth turned up as he watched the dying man give a small nod, his breaths starting to wheeze.

Echoes of his steps fall around the mountain as he bends at the knee, resting right next to Arthur “I won’t ask you to get up”. He unrolls paper, and places it on the ground next to the outlaw. Arthur see’s something shining in that pale man’s eyes, there’s something wrong with him. But Arthur’s greedy.

He wants another chance at life, he wants to right his wrongs, he wants to see you again. He’s a selfish man, he thinks as his hands struggle to grasp the paper, and he doesn’t even read the contract before he tries to sign his name. The man laughs as Arthur coughs and his blood splatters the page “That’ll do just fine Mr Morgan” and he takes the contract away from him, rolling it back up and sheathing it in a metal cylinder. “When you open your eyes next, you’ll be healthy as a horse”. The man grins before he’s gone, and Arthur’s eyes slipped shut.

And now here he was a year down the line. The devil’s bounty hunter. He’d spent the past year collecting souls and returning them back to hell, never seeing you. He should never have taken that contract, he should have died that day on the mountain. You thought he had, Charles and John thought he had. Even set him up a nice little grave that he’d watched you visit time and time again over the year.

His heart yearned to be near you again, to feel your warmth and your softness beneath his fingers but he refused to let Mephisto know his weakness. So he spent his days wandering the west, the shire he’d gotten from Hosea had become his ride and he went everywhere with Arthur. 

Even right now, here he was in the small town you’d settled in, watching as you brought in the washing. Your head turning up to look at the sky causing your shoulders to sag when you saw the grey clouds hanging overhead. Arthur kept his hat down low so if you happened to look, you wouldn’t see that rugged outlaw you’d lost a year ago.

The rider stood there for a little longer watching you but his sadness quickly turned to jealousy, his gaze dropping from that aching to venom as he watched some man he’d never seen before riding up to your house. The stranger dismounting as he pressed flowers into your hand which you seemed to accept willingly. That smile you reserved only for him was present and all Arthur wanted in that moment was to drag that man down to hell.

It was a few days later when he returned to you, and you were out tending to the small garden you’d managed to maintain. The sky had been clear for some time and he watched you worry your bottom lip between your teeth. You disappeared inside the door for a few seconds before coming back out with a basket, leaving the garden and turning down to walk through the trees that your property backed onto.

Arthur stood up straight, his hand shaking the cigarette and throwing it onto the ground once it was out. He pushed his hat slightly down as he began to walk after you. The outlaw watched you carefully, not showing himself just yet, and fooling himself that he was following you because the forest wasn’t safe. Who knows what was here, you needed that protection.

While he had taught you to use a gun some years ago, that didn’t mean you were any good at it. Least not better than him.

He followed you for a while, you hadn’t even noticed. More reason for him to be accurately worried. And he watched as you bent to pick more flowers, adding them to the already full basket. His brow furrowed as he finally took note of them, originally he thought the book you held was full of the information and pictures of them but now, as he looked closer, he noticed the familiar worn leather. His own journal.

You’d kept it. You’d kept it.

And that seemed to be what made him snap. Your head turning fast at the sound of someone stomping towards you. Hands forcing you to stand up, an arm wrapping around your waist and someone's mouth crashing to yours.. Teeth clashing against your own as your eyes widened and you tried to push this sudden figure off you. Anger filled your mind, until he pulled slightly away from you.

Your eyes still wide as you dropped the basket, shaky hands holding his face gently. One of your fingers gently tracing his face, mouth opening and shutting as you tried to speak.

It was Arthur who spoke first “I missed you darlin’” came that rough timber that you’d spent nights trying to replay in your mind “Missed ya somethin’ fierce”.

You were the one to kiss him this time, pulling him forward so quickly it knocked his hat back but he didn’t care as he kissed you back. Tongue pushing your lips apart so he could explore every inch of your mouth, you didn’t fight it like you normally would. His brow furrowed as he tasted something salty and opened his eyes to see you crying.

He pulled away again, shushing you gently as his thumbs brushed away the tears “I’m sorry, I know baby girl but I’m here now” you buried your face into his neck, breathing in the scent of him. Leather, gunpowder and sandalwood flooded your nose and it felt like you could breathe for the first time in a year. Your hands took the hat from his head completely so you could run your hands through his soft strands, looking up at him in wonder.

“You were gone” Arthur swore he could have fell to his knees right there with the way your voice cracked, he had never meant to cause such pain. Maybe taking that deal wasn’t such a bad thing, if it meant he could hold you like this, if he could hear that sweet melody of your voice.

“Let me make it up to ya” one of his hands slowly moved down from your waist to grab your ass, squeezing it tightly as his mouth crooks up into a grin and your cheeks go red at his insinuation. You try to stammer a reply but he just shushes you again “Come on girl, just lay here and look pretty, alrigh’?”

Those words are all it takes for him to quickly have you on the floor, hiking your skirts up over your waist and Arthur’s quickly pushing his trousers down. The gun belt is somewhere near his hat. His hands are as rough as you remember as he pushes your thighs open, his eyes dark at the sight between them “Hold” comes his gruff voice, and your hands immediately go under your knees to keep yourself held open for him.

The way his eyes watch you sends arousal thrumming through your body and your hole clenches around nothing causing the man above you to roll his neck and breath through his nose. His hands trace down the fat of your thighs before his thumb pushes against your clit and he slowly circles it “Missed me that much, sugar?”

You can only nod and grip your legs as he applies more pressure “I missed you so much Arthur” he leans down to kiss at your neck, your eyes fluttering and mouth dropping open as his teeth scrape against the skin. His fingers slide down your wet lips, gathering some of it before he gently pushes against your hole. Your body doesn’t deny the man entrance, he meets almost no resistance as he begins to move his fingers in and out, his thumb still rubbing at the sensitive nub.

“Then I won’t tease ya” he mumbles against the pulse in your throat, and you mewl in agreement. He stretches you gently, adding another finger and this causes you to gasp “S’okay darlin’ just been a while, gotta get you ready” your hand moves to the base of his hair, tanging in the strands and tugging to get his face to move up, pressing your lips to his again.

Your legs tremble in your own hold as his fingers press up against the soft spot inside you, the pressure on your clit and the way he kisses you until your breathless has your back arching. His mouth swallows all the sweet noises you give him. 

It doesn’t take long for the man to expertly bring you to that edge, it’s been so long since you felt like this. You’d tried to do it yourself once you’d thought you were done grieving but your own hand just hadn’t been enough. Oh but Arthur’s hand? It knew exactly where to stroke, how fast to go, the right amount of pressure to apply. “That’s it sweetheart, just like that. Such a good girl f’me”

And his words had you going over that edge, your fingers leaving marks on your own skin, your legs trying to close even as you held them open. Arthur’s eyes watching the way your hole tightened around his fingers, slick drooling down to the forest floor as your eyes fluttered shut and you could only whimper and whine at the feeling.

Arthur’s fingers left your cunt leaving you to whine as he shushes you, his hands making quick work to pull his trousers half way down his thighs, enough to bring his cock out of his underwear. The fabric pressed just under his balls. Your eyes gravitated there, tracing the hard dick he sported. 

You couldn’t tear your gaze away, his own hand barely able to wrap around it as he pumped a few times, his head tipping back with a groan and his cock jumped at the action. Arthur stroked the head against your folds, the precum oozing from the slit and coating your pussy as he gathered the wetness. You pouted up at him, trying to roll your hips up against him and Arthur raised an eyebrow.

His free hand moving to pin your body down as he threatened “Have I gotta crush you to floor, girl?” his tone let you know not to do that again, and your entire body relaxed against the leaves and sticks as he finally pushed into your hole. A gasp leaving you, and he stilled with just the tip inside as he let you get used to the feeling again.

Both of you tensed at the sound of your name being yelled through the forest, seeming to echo as someone called your name and suddenly Arthur’s loving exterior was gone. Your hands let go of your legs and you sat up to push him off you “Oh oh, we got to stop” but the outlaw only pushed you back to the floor, his body weight on you as he pushed the rest of his cock inside you.

“We ain’t gotta do nothing. You gotta lay here and take it” Your eyes widened, you’d never seen him like this before, but as Arthur started to buck his hips up against you, you could only do as he said. Your arms wrapping around his shoulders and clinging to the back of his jacket, his own hands gripping your thighs this time to keep them open. His fingers dimpling the fat as he almost seemed in a frenzy to fuck you.

You couldn’t see his face, but you heard the grunts and growls as his hips humped at you, his cock stretching you out over and over as he used your cunt. The yelling of your name got louder before fading away, the person walking in a different direction “He couldn’t do ya ike this, nah, he aint the type to give you what ya need darlin’”. You had no idea what he was talking about, brow furrowing but you couldn’t focus on one single thought. Not with the way his fingers bruising your thighs as the head bruised your cervix.

And then, all of a sudden, you felt very hot. Your eyes shot open as you watched flames engulf Arthur. His hands burning at your skin and as you looked down all you saw were bones gripping at your thighs “W-what?” you whispered out, your body tensing and Arthur froze too.

His mind went blank as he realised what had happened, and he stammered and stuttered as he tried to think of something to say “Darlin’ I, well, er” Your hand moved to touch the skeleton fingers, and they seemed to change back into his own fingers. And then you realised the flames didn’t really hurt. They were just hot.

Arthur’s eyes widened as he felt your hole clench around him, and it caused him to groan as he thrust into you again. Calming enough that he could morph back into your loving cowboy, his hands gripping your thighs again as he set back into his brutal “Ya like that, dont ya, sugar?” his voice dripped in arousal as he continued the assault on your cunt. This time his touch was accompanied with the flames you seemed to find fascinating. He watched you nod up at him, that devious grin charming up his face.

He brought one of his hands up to your corset, setting it on fire and you gasped as it turned to ash, blowing away in the wind. Mouth going dry as he teased at your hardened nipple, the flame licking at the bud but never burning you. And your hips rolled up forcing more of his cock into you, and your back arched pressing his hand against your breast again. “yeah you like it” came his deep timbre again.

With the added touch of his flames against your skin now, it was easy to get you back into that syrupy head space allowing Arthur to fuck you against the forest floor as he humped into your cunt, his cock dragging along your g-spot in the most delicious way. His words slipping into your ears as he brought you closer and closer to that edge again, his hand making it’s way down your body, burning the pieces of clothing that stopped its path before it could press against your clit.

Your entire body thrummed as he applied some of that heat while he circled your clit, your cunt starting to ache from how he used you and a whimper leaving your mouth as you soaked the floor and Arthur’s pants. He pressed closer to you until you could feel his shirt against your face, his hips keeping your legs apart while his hands moved to grab at the floor. Trying to keep himself grounded as he slowed down his pace “Fuck darlin’!” his voice rang out as you came undone around him.

His eyes rolling as his cock twitched, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white and he stayed as close as possible as his hips rolled and pressed you into the floor. His hands grasped around dirt and leaves as he filled you. “Forgot how good that feels” the outlaws voice was a raspy pant as he breathed heavily above you.

And you both stayed there for a few minutes, until his cock had softened inside you and he pulled out slowly, his hands soothing at your thighs while he shushed you. Your body tensing at the ache between your thighs, and little whimpers left you as he pulled out “I know, I know, ‘m sorry” came the once again gentle Arthur. The one you knew.

As you slowly blinked, trying to gain control over your breathing again, you moved your hand to touch his face. Brow furrowing as you tried to make sense of what you had seen. Not only was the man you loved back from the dead…but he seemed to be some kind of fire skeleton. Confusion swarmed your mind.

The rough man pressed a kiss to your palm, his hand moving to take your own off his face as he gave you a shy smile, his gaze full of concern and something else. Something that seemed awfully similar to that look when he was self-conscious all those years ago “I can explain”

You nodded up at him, looking at him expectedly as he began to explain what had happened. And while it didn’t all make sense to you, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was you had Arthut back. Whether he was tethered to this ‘Ghost Rider’ demon or not.

[k1ngpin42]

𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚗 & 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛 (𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 ;)

Warnings: 18+, smut, oral (giving & receiving) s3x, fingering, handj0b, soft & rough Arthur, gentlemen Arthur, V!rgin reader 

Notes: I know you guys voted Sub Abby, ✌𝓢𝓤𝓑 𝓐𝓑𝓑𝓨 ✌ WILL BE POSTED NEXT I had been working on this Red Dead project a while ago so I hope you don’t take it too negatively. Thanks for all the support I’ve had so far, it means a lot that people can enjoy my work (even if it’s mostly smut.)

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Notorious outlaw Arthur Morgan, who has been forced into a tight, high end tux in a crammed, high end place hates everything about this party Dutch made him attend. That is until he meets a fancy woman, (you) who isn’t as dull as he originally suspected. 

PLEASE NOTE: there’s no fluid 1850s language used so don’t be upset if there’s some modern slang or anything I’m just writing cause I’m bored. 

Some Y/N is mentioned, I try to avoid Y/N at all costs but there was no way around it this time, I’m sorry guys but it’s only a few times so dw.

The mission was practically a laughing matter- being that the guest of honour was a drug lord and that Arthur and the others were all outlaws who wouldn’t know which utensil to use at dinner to save their life, which glass to drink from or their name, how to feel normal in a suit, how to not steal every beautiful piece of decor they encountered and how to even speak with all these…well-read, well off folk. 

The mission itself seemed simple enough. Talk to the governor, make a good impression and snoop around. Having to give the doormen their weapons was just another reminder of how far out of his comfort zone he was. 

When the champagne was offered Arthur immediately took a glass, looking over the porch and subtly acknowledging Dutch beside him. Bronte greets them warmly and starts pointing out and mocking some of the party guests, including Mayor Henri Lemiux, Alberto Fussar, Hobart Crawley and his wife Brenda. Once the group seperate, Arthur makes his way to the main floor.

“Okay…” Arthur mumbled to himself, grimly. “Mingle…” He looks around the crowd. There are people dancing, talking, making out of course, He doesn’t know where to go first. That is until he hears you talking to some man.

“You…flatter me.” You tell him, clearly lying. “However I am…reserving my dance for another…” You say, quickly. Arthur turns to face you and see’s the most beautiful gown he’s ever seen. It’s a white corset that extends down into an ocean of subtle ruffles. The material looks stiff and the bottom has specks of gold. 

The man in question is overweight and if he was being honest, smelt rank. He felt sorry for you, whoever you were, he had suspected you were dragged to this thing too, fancy dress and all. 

“I don’t see him.” The man said, putting his arms around your hips. You carefully remove them and he grabs your arm tightly.

“Where you goin’ princess?” He says, and something in Arthur almost snaps, he wants to snap. He knows he can’t make a scene so he walks behind you, whispering in your ear. His warm breath and the unexpectedness of it all initially makes you flinch, but ANYONE would be better than this slag. You had seen him get handsy with almost every female employee here and on the streets you had heard him getting creepy with fucking children. Thankfully it hadn’t escalated, at least so far.

“You alright miss?” Arthur questions in your ear. You turn over to look at him. He’s tall and awful handsome, not like any men you had seen at the party so far. He had gorgeous eyes of Atlantic blue and his hair was…almost perfect. It looked like whatever product he used was far from his regular style as the parting was all over the place, but his jawline and minimal facial hair tied the look together. 

“Uh…here he is.” You said, stunned at your own words. He looks at you icily. “Uh….That’s not-“

“Who is that? I ain’t seen him before.” The man yells at you, completely ignoring Arthurs existence. Arthur sighs.

“I’m her…partner….tonight anyway.”  You nod. 

“Exactly, and I owe him a dance so if you don’t mind.”

“Fuck you, how would your daddy react to you dancing with some nameless stranger?” The man groans at you. You roll your eyes.

“Go hang.” You say, quietly, but Arthur still hears it and his eyes widen, impressed. 

“He gon’ hear about it from me just you wait”

“Looking forward to it.” You tell him, and the man goes off somewhere. You let out a groan, covering your eyes in embarrassment.

“I am so sorry Mr…?”

“Uh...that’s not important. And you’re welcome. Who was that?” He asks. You sigh. 

“Not important.” You grab his hands and start swirling around and his face flushes red.

“Miss I…ain’t much of a dancer.”

“Well it would be a damn waste not to dance after that little facade.” He looks at you, a little confused, but nods.

“What brings you here anyway?” You ask, his large hand on your waist, the other in your gloved palm. Arthur can’t help but smile, still taking in your figure. 

“My friends and I were invited by Bronte, he’s a guest here.”

“I see. So you’re here to make impressions?

“Or some such thing.” He replies, still blushing like an idiot. You talk for a little while, swaying to the music, talking about everything and nothing as if he’s the most trustworthy person out there.

“I hate going to these things.” You tell him, a little worried you had ruined the weirdly peaceful atmosphere the two of you had been experiencing. He nods, watching you intently while still trying to maintain rhythm.

“You look like a million bucks. I would have assumed you were made for these things.” He stumbles. 

His lack of fluidness when talking was weirdly attractive, it brought a sense of comfort which you rarely felt, especially with his accent. 

“In a way I was made for it…these parties are my life whether I like it or not.”

“I couldn’t imagine it.” Arthur blurts out, and you look up at him with curiosity. 

“I knew you weren’t a noble.” You say with a grin. He rolls his eyes playfully.

“Why? Do I smell like poor folk?” You laugh at his comment. 

“No, no the camp smell is…luxurious.” “I’ll have you know I bathed before I came here.” He replied defensively, causing you to laugh more. This banter went on until he spotted Lemieux.

“Excuse me.” He says, not even waiting for the dance to end before approaching your father. The mayor's butler, Pierre appears and tells Lemieux that he received a phone call from Leviticus Cornwall. Another man with greasy black hair overhears this and has Arthur follow Pierre to find out about it. 

Being as cautious as you can, you slip through and follow Arthur to see what he’s doing. You watch him follow Pierre into an office and enter it once Pierre leaves. Arthur starts trying to unlock the door when you come in.

“So you’re not just not a noble, you’re a thief.” You remark, causing him to spin his head around to face you.

“Miss…” He tries. You roll your eyes.

“Save it. What are you even looking for?”

“Look, this is all just a misunderstanding, I’m sure if you just let me go, we can both forget this ever happened, I’ll be on my way and you can go back to your life of parties.” He tries, lowering the document in his hand.

You walk over to him, leaning over his shoulder to see the document.

“Wow.” You say, unimpressed. He looks at you guiltily. 

“Look, I’m sorry miss, you seem real nice and I meant no disrespect by coming here and…acting all decent, I’m just doing what I’m told.” He tries, his voice sounding like a plead at this point. 

“Mmm, what Dutch Van Der Linde told you to do, right? He was that man with the excessive hair pomade and the…vests. I’ve heard about him.”

“What?? You know of me??” Arthur demanded. You put a soft, gloved hand to his mouth.

“Shhh, do you know how much trouble we would be in if we were discovered in here? I had suspected you were an outlaw but the only one I recognised was Dutch and Bronte.” Arthur isn’t paying attention to your words so much as he is the warm hand on his mouth. 

“Who are you?” He asks. You shake your head. 

“What are you going to do with the papers?”

“Look, it isn’t really business for a lady to-“ You glare at him and he fumbles his words again. 

“Not to say a lady can’t…my meaning is-“

“So a robbery?” You interrupt, unimpressed by his long winded explanation. He sighs.

“St Denis is a big city…it don’t need quite so many vaults in that bank they have secured up real nice.” He says. You roll your eyes,

“You can not be that foolish. Doing any sort of crime in St Denis is suicide unless you have a bullet proof escape plan and I’m sorry but I smelt your bullshit from a mile away.”

“You have quite the tongue for a lady.”

“And you are just…something else for a gentlemen.” You retort. 

All of a sudden you hear the jittering of keys at the door and you and Arthur exchange a look of panic.

“Oh Jesus.” Arthur mutters and you roll your eyes.

“Swearing isn’t helping, outlaw. Try that window.”

“I have a name-“

“Then say it.”

“It-“ He groans, wondering how the fuck he got into this situation and why he was involving himself with a random woman. A beautiful and intelligent one at that, one who definitely challenged him in a way he enjoyed, but also one who was getting in the fucking way.

“It’s Arthur…” He pauses, turning to look at you when he reaches the window. “Morgan.” He adds. 

The window won’t open and so you shove the document back into the draw and lean Arthur against the window, pressing your mouth against his aggressively. He was clearly shocked, and who wouldn’t be? But still, almost like an instinct, his lips parted and his tongue moved skillfully through your mouth. Henry Lemieux walks in an audibly gasps. 

“Y/N Lemieux what the hell are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry father I…let me explain.” Arthurs ears burn at this. Father??

“You listen here little girl, I have told you NEVER to go in here. What’s gotten into you? And on such a significant night with some stranger??”

“My rooms always guarded and I just wanted some privacy. Arthur and I have been seeing each other for some time but I knew I couldn’t take him here. I’m sorry I let you down this is just the only place I knew there wouldn’t be workers.”

He sighs. “I understand there are a lot of rules in this household that may make you…may make it feel like there’s not as much freedom as ideal but it’s to protect you! You need to be more careful with strangers.” He yells, walking over to Arthur.

“Mmm, Bronte invited you I take? I don’t know you otherwise and I know anyone who’s anyone, meaning there’s no way you’re good enough for my daughter. Did you try and take her honour? Is that it?”

“We were just talking, that was our first kiss father honest it was.” Arthur puts his hands up innocently, nodding at your comment. Henry lets out an annoyed gush of air..

“I want you both out of here, we will discuss your punishment later, my daughter.” You nod and drag him to your room, waving at the guards there to fuck off. They stare at you blankly.

“Men are not allowed I-“

“My father just allowed it, but if you don’t trust me, you can go bother him in his study, I’m sure he’d be thrilled.” You tell one of them, annoyed. He nods and the guards head downstairs. You close the door and Arthur is just looking at you, wide eyed. He turns to the door and you sigh.

“I’m…not allowed locks.” You explain. He doesn’t say anything. 

“So…” You say. He angrily paces around the room.

“What the fuck…what the fuck??” 

“Calm down Mr Morgan.” You say, unphased. He glares a you. 

“Calm down?? I did more than just fuck up. I exposed my whole fucking plan to the governors daughter just because she was a pretty face I- fuck, this was a bad plan.” Arthur mumbled to himself. You smile slightly.

“You think I’m pretty?”

“I got to go…” He says, reaching towards the door. You walk in front of it.

“Why?” You ask, plainly.

“What?”

“Why do you have to go?” You question, He walks closer to you, his eyes darting around the room nervously. 

“Well you’re just gonna tell your dad won’t ya?”

“Oh yeah cause I just lied for fun Mr Morgan that’s a real bright comment.”

“Well why else would you do it? You don’t know me.”

“You’re an outlaw. Slightly naive, perhaps, but you, hair pomade and whoever else is in your group, you do anything you can for family. Even utterly foolish things such as breaking into the governments office and robbing the most secure bank in this country. I’m not going to inform my father. I can respect what you were…trying but if you try that whole St Denis thing, you can rest assured you will be walking into your own damn funeral.”

“Well what else would you suggest then, miss?? In case you haven’t noticed, men like me don’t get good paying jobs, unless it’s for folk like you who would never hire us.”

“Trains, small stores, homesteads…” You pause. “boats.”

He raises an eyebrow. 

‘You’re encouraging I steal, my lady?” You practically snort at his comment.

“In essence. People ‘like me’ don’t REALLY need those gold emerald earrings or platinum laced watches. It’s less stealing than it is…balance.” You say, matter-of-factly. He can’t deny how impressed and surprised he is by you. A government daughter, gorgeous, smart, fancy as hell but most importantly you didn’t hate him, and that meant more to him than words could measure.

“The grand Korrigan holds high end poker games. It’s easier than you’d think to sneak on, I’ve done it myself, it’s in Lemoyne.”

“W- I’m sorry, you snuck on to the grand Kerrigan….in lemoyne?”

“I heard my father talk about it. I was bored.”

“Why would you help me? I mean isn’t it against your father in some way?”

“How I see it, you were going to do this anyway, I’m not helping at all, simply telling you where it is so that you don’t go kill yourself at the bank. If I were to…accompany you, then perhaps I wouldn’t feel inclined to tell my father you were in there to steal copies of the deed my father was going to sign.” 

“Okay woah, slow down my lady-“

“You really don’t have to call me that…”

“I really do. Now listen, there is no way we’re getting involved  with the governers daughter, I’m sorry that you get bored dressing up like a doll 3 times a day and having guards around you but that’s no excuse to go commit crimes…”

“I won’t be committing them, you will.”

“Still, I don’t want to be liable for you.”

“Wow…romantic.” You say, sarcastically. He sighs.

“That’s not what I mean it’s just….the answer is no.”

“I’ve snuck on before, I know heaps of ways to sneak in and out of this city as well several others. When you can’t leave town there’s nothing else to do but learn about everyone else’s business. I guarantee I could get you into anywhere. Plus I cn protect myself, I’ve been trained in combat since I was 14.”

“But why?” He asks. But he doesn’t need to. He knows the answer. He felt it when you guys first touched and again when you first kissed. He felt it now knowing you’ve seen through him and didn’t want to look away. You weren’t frightened or repulsed and neither one of you wanted to part each other. It was unexplainable. You barely knew each other. 

“I can’t keep letting my life slip away in this meaningless existence. I want adventure, love I don’t know…I know I’m stupid for think-“

“Don’t talk about yourself like that sweetheart” Arthur says, putting a hand on your face.

“We shouldn’t do this.” He says, dragging his thumb over your lip and making it part slightly. You nod.

“It would be reckless…we would be naive to think we won’t get caught.” You breathe out. He nods.

“We would probably…” Arthur paused, his accent thick in your ears. “get as far as the gate before everything goes sideways, not to mention the gang would never accept you.” You nod back.

“exactly.”

“Exactly.” He says, putting his other hand on your face and kissing you deeply.

———————————Smut——————————————

You can taste residue of the sweet, bubbly champagne he had drank only moments earlier mixed with the metallic taste of his being. Having someones tongue in your mouth and particularly a man who was anything but inexperienced was unusual to say the least, but a feeling you welcomed as he eagerly explored and savoured your taste now too. 

You walk back with your arms still wrapped around his neck, kissing him roughly. You flinch slightly when you bump into the end of your bed. You hesitate for a moment, looking into his pretty eyes again before internally making a decision and climbing onto your bed. He tilts his head, admiring you fondly. 

“Now Miss, I don’t think we should rush this, you’re a woman. To be…I don’t know…cared for or somethin’. Me? I’m a bad man.” Arthur hesitates. “A rough man.” He corrects.

“It’s okay Morgan, I’m not a little girl, I can handle it.” He walks away from the bed and paces for a while. You decide to reassure him with more than just words this time and remove your shoes, then you start working on the lace at the back of your dress. Arthur sighs, knowing he won’t be able to avoid all the things he’ll do to you. He’s a good man, somewhere in there. When it comes to women he was more decent than most at least.

“Let me help you with that.” He says, grabbing you by the hips and pulling you so your back is right against the front of his body. He removes it and starts working at your undergarments. 

“Do you want to stop?” He asks. You shake your head.

“No?” You say, more surprised at how gentle he’s being with you than anything else. He chuckles softly.

“Just making sure.” He coos before effortlessly removing your undergarments as well. 

He flips you around and pushes you so you’re lying spread across the bed. He climbs over you, positioning himself so his knee is between your legs. You feel nervous with your body exposed to him like this. He starts tracing your body with his finger tips.

“You’re god damn gorgeous.” He remarks, cupping one of your warm breasts which you were embarrassed at how quickly the nipple on it hardened under his touch. He lays soft kisses all over your chest, sucking near your bellybutton which got an excited gasp from you in response. He continues drawing lines across your body with the two middle fingers of his right hand but stops when he reaches your lower area. 

“You ever done anything like this before?” He asks, kissing your waistline. You consider lying. “Of course…” You could say, but he’d see right through it. You just didn’t want him to back up and leave because he didn’t want to harm your image. Too fucking gentlemanly to taint a womans reputation, but murder and crime? Now that’s alright.

“Well?” He questions again. You blush, shaking your head.

“No, I guess not.” You admit. You can see this troubles him, but he knows you don’t want to stop, he can tell you’re yearning for it, yearning for him more specifically.

“You know how it all works?” He asks, lowering himself to your thighs and kissing inside. You nod.

“Yeah, yeah I think so.” You reply, your eyes fluttering at the varying sensations your body was experiencing. He nods.

“Sit on my lap, I’m gonna put my fingers in okay?” You do as he says, sitting on his fancy black pants and adjusting yourself so that he’s comfortable. He lets out a light groan.

“God, sorry did I hurt you Mr Morgan?” He chuckles slightly.

“Quite the opposite, stay still I need to be able to control myself.” He instructs, and you feel yourself pooling at his words. 

“Do you have water in this room?” He asks, and you look at him confused. 

“Uh, yeah, by my nightstand theres a jug, I get thirsty sometimes at night.” 

“Be right back.” He says, placing you back on the bed and taking the jug, pouring some water onto his fingers.

“If you’re uh…sort of….tight inside, it feels better with wet fingers.” He explains. You can’t help but laugh.

“You’re not the smoothest man out there Mr Morgan.” You tease. He laughs back.

“Pretty girls have that effect on me.” He delicately guides his two middle fingers between your folds and your pussy literally glistens. You’ve never felt wet for another person before and especially not to this extent. 

“Breathe in.” He says as he guides two fingers inside you and you let out a sharp breath. He immediately removes his fingers.

“Too much, my lady?” You shake your head.

“No, no I can take it.” You affirm and he rolls his eyes playfully. 

“Sweetheart, I can tell the difference between a painful gasp and a moan. You’re still tight so I’m going to use my tongue to help you relax.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just think of it like a kiss.” He says before putting his tongue inside you. You let out the loudest moan you’ve ever heard yourself make and you put your fist in your mouth, embarrassed.

“Oh my god…” You whisper as he quickens his movements. Then, his nose is bumping up against your clit, his tongue still working other areas.

“Fuck~” You moan. You can guess all your manners and lessons in how to be dignified had gone down the drain. 

A man you had met only today, an outlaw no less who was only at the party to steal from your father was giving you pleasure you could never give yourself. It was….interesting.

“Fuck…Fuck Arthur don’t go so fast I’ll…it’s too much…” But Arthurs so fucking into it, tasting you, savouring every orgasmic noise you make for the first time, only for his ears to enjoy. He doesn’t slow down and it’s not long before your pussy pulses in his mouth, your thighs shaking like a damn leaf. 

“He gets back up and puts you on his lap again, putting his fingers in your slick.

“Wow, that’s quite a lot sweetheart.”

“I’ve never….well not like that before.” You explain. He nods, putting his fingers inside your significantly looser hole, doing small beckoning motions inside of you. You start breathing heavy again as he pumps his fingers in and out. You cling onto his jacket, already feeling your stomach swell in waves of pleasure. When you release again, he just flashes you a satisfied look.

“I’m gonna take my pants off. You can rub yourself on my thigh first, gotta get you ready for my cock.”  You’re flushing red and just let out a small sound of understanding. When you see his half-hard cock in his underwear, though, you are so consumed with lust you can’t think of anything else but touching it.

“Go on get on my thigh.” Arthur tells you with a comforting smile. He notices your hesitant expression.

“What is it?” 

“I want to touch you.” You blurt out. He smirks.

“Really?” He asks. You nod. 

“Please.” Arthur gets off better through pleasuring others, but you’re so beautifully eager that he doesn’t think twice.

“Here.” He says, taking off the glove on your right hand and guiding it into his (boxers? Whatever tf they had back then) It was warm and felt very strange in a way you weren’t sure you liked, however feeling it grow in the palm of your hand was satisfying. You pulled the pants further down, taking out his cock. It was pretty well groomed and a lot cleaner than you had anticipated. It was also big. You knew it would be, he was practically a cowboy and you definitely knew what they said about cowboys.

He grabbed your hand and gripped it sternly over his shaft.

“Move your thumb over the tip…” He moves your fingers, rubbing himself with them.

“Like this. Then with your hand, apply press- mm” He lets out a low groan.

“And move up and down like this.” You nod, smiling a little awkwardly as you go up and down as fast as you can. Arthur rolls his head back.

“Damn….thats the way sweetheart fuck~” Arthur babbled. You smile, liking the effect you had on him.You continued at that pace and pressure for a while until his moans had progressed into hot fucking whimpers. He smirks at you knowingly. 

“This turn you on gorgeous?” You don’t reply with words, just a simple nod. He hums in response. 

“Show me how much.”

You remove your hand from his cock and reach down to your cunt, getting a thick layer of your slick from your fingers and showing him, clearly still embarrassed.He acknowledges this with a fond look of satisfaction. 

“Coat my cock with it.” He instructs, and your eyes widen at his bluntness. 

“I-“ You stop yourself, deciding your words were of little value in a situation like this. You do as he says, applying a thing layer of your spent and moving even faster. He moans at the sensation and warm precum floods your hands. You look up at him nervously.

“Wait…did you?” 

“No sweetheart, you gotta do more than that.”

“Then why? What is…” you say, your fingers fidgeting with the liquid on your hands. He chuckles, fuck his laugh is attractive, too. 

“It happens a little before. When it feels good, it means I’m close just keep going sweetheart. Keep your eyes on me.” You nod and go faster, feeling his precum dripping over your fingers.

He lets out a low groan combined with a slightly high pitched, breathy whimper. If your ears could cum, they would have just then. You watch with admiration as his head leans back, his glowing face looking all that much sexier when he wasn’t consumed in a mission.

“Mmmph…so good sweeth- oh fuck…” He lets out. You keep your eyes on him even as his cock pulses inside your hand, warmth completely coated your significantly smaller hand. You finally look back down at it.

“What does…what would it taste like?” You question, not even sure why the question crossed your mind. He laughs.

“Now how would I know that my lady?” He asks, still breathing heavily. You roll your eyes at yourself.

“Right.” You exclaim, feeling stupid. He puts a hand on your cheek.

“You did real good…” He says, but you’re still preoccupied in your own thoughts. 

You should have asked first, probably, and in truth you’re not sure why you didn’t, but you put him in your mouth, tasting the salty, metallic flavour of him and evaluating the texture. He lets out a shocked gasp.

“H…holy….don’t- wh…” Is all he can manage, his dick practically swelling in your mouth. You stop and look up at him, swallowing what was in your mouth.

“Sorry…did you not like it?”

“Well I….of course I did- do- of course I do but…you need to give it time, it’s sensitive after releasing all that.” He explains. Your smile widens.

“It sounded like you like it.”

“I do b-“ You put him in your mouth again and this time he grabs your head and instinctively pushes it down, furthering himself in your mouth. 

You’re stunned by his actions and also weirdly turned on, it’s not too much for you to handle and the new roughness he could give and is obviously keeping from you was starting to show. You continue and feel him rock hard again, not even able to speak and replacing his words with small whimpers and sighs. 

“Hey um…stop st-“ He lets out. You do as he says, scared you did something wrong.

“Are you a virgin?” He speaks softly once he finally got his words back. You look a little upset now.

“That bad, huh?”

“What? It was incredible I’ve never felt that good in my life it’s just. If you’re willing we could…uh”

“Oh.” You say, your cheeks lighting up.

“I know you said you haven’t done anything like this.” He adds. “You probably want to save yourself for your husband.”

‘What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. George Pettie said that.” 

“Who?” 

“He’s an author, he- nevermind.” You say, taking off his coat and unbuttoning his shirt. 

“I’m not a good person, you don’t want your first to be with some random outlaw you met at a party do you?” He questions as the last of his clothes are removes and you see his glistening body, gentle lines of hair across the center. You shrug.

“It’s better this way, better to have experience, you know?” He rolls his eyes playfully. 

“So you went for me. Wow, a man thinks he’s special…” He teases, grabbing you by your hips and pulling you onto his lap. You gasp at the feeling of your bare bodies touching like this, his warm thighs under your wet pussy, it was something you never knew you were craving. 

“I’m gonna get you used to the rocking motion…uh.” He starts, taking you by the hips again and moves you slowly up his thigh. He moves you back down and you gasp at the sensation, your clit already fucking throbbing for him. Arthur smirks happily and moves you back again, this time with your help as you thrust your hips onto him. You let out a loud moan. He smiles widely. 

“Mmm…good girl.” He murmurs as you start pleasuring yourself on his thigh. You look away nervously but keep moving up and down.

“I feel bad.” You say, simply. “You can’t feel anything when I do this.” He kisses you deeply and fuck do you love the feeling of his tongue dancing with yours. 

“I love it like this.” Arthur admits, and you can tell by the look on his face that he’s genuine.  Your pleasure is everything to him, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t give it to you. 

You keep going for a while, letting a chorus of gasps and moans escape your lips in a song of desperation. You’re close again, your eyes shutting involuntarily as you grip onto his hair. 

“So good…” You exclaim, thrusting harshly. He kisses you even longer this time. 

“Real good, girl.” He coos. 

You look down and Arthur looks almost painfully hard at all this commotion. You look at him nervously. He smiles comfortingly at you. 

“Lie down.” He tells you, and you do as he says, carefully getting off his lap and lying down on the bed beside him. 

“Good, now take deep breaths, it might hurt a little at first okay?” Your wetness pools between your thighs. He’s so fucking caring, at least in this situation, and fuck…he talks you through it. You know he’s experienced and yet he’s treating every sensation like its a first for both of you 

“Sweetheart?” He asks, softly, bringing you out of your head long enough to enjoy the experience. You blush.

“Yea- Yes.” You say, and he towers over you, sucking at the soft skin of your neck and urging a breathy moan in response. 

“Don’t…mess around Arthur- just do it already.” He raises an eyebrow at this.

“Eager, aren’t you miss? Do you want me bad?” You roll your eyes, only somewhat playfully. 

“Just do it.” You repeat. He didn’t really need to be told twice, because he was already lining himself up with your small, dripping cunt. You gasp and he lets out a deep groan when he first enters you. It stings slightly, after all he’s fucking large, but the pain of it all mixed with the pleasure you know he can give you only enhances the situation. 

Arthur watches you from above, noting every noise you make as a result of the things he does to you. He particularly notices the way he forces himself inside you, the way you take every inch of him so fucking well, especially when there’s so much of him to take. It feels fucking phenomenal for him too, the heat of it, the stickiness from all his prior manipulation, it takes everything inside him to not thrust in and out as hard and fast as he wants to, using you as a fucking toy. You would be so perfect for that if that’s what you were into, or if you were any of Arthurs usual sexual partners- troubled women usually, who just want their brains to be fucked out by an outlaw. You were different though. Eager, maybe, but a dignified and intelligent woman who was sleeping with him because she knew it was what she wanted and not because she was troubled or unsatisfied by other men. 

You could see that lustful look in his eye as he cautiously went in and out and you reach up to put a hand on his face. 

“I can handle it Morgan. Go as fast as you want.” It’s like you could hear his thoughts. Arthur always had been transparent. He shakes his head.

“I’m not going to use…” He lets out a groan. “You.” He adds. You give him the most seductive look you know how to make.

“Use me.” You say, and his eyes darken at your comment. You grabs your legs and pins them above your head, forcing his entire cock inside you with some force, making you moan so loud you practically scream. 

“Am I hurting y-“

“Enough with that, Morgan. “If you’re as bad of a man as you claim, you’ll treat me however you want to treat me.”

“I want to treat you well…” Arthur tries, unconvincingly. You give him a comforting look.

“Go on, Morgan.” You affirm again, and he nods, changing his attitude. 

“You gonna take it like a fucking good girl?” He questions and holy fuck, this is turning you on significantly more, which is also more or less a concern, you can cross that bridge if and when it comes to it though. 

“Fuck…yes Morg-“

“Don’t fucking call me that. What’s my name?”

“A…Arthur.” You cry out as he moves so fucking fast, so fucking effortlessly.  He smiles.

“Good girl.” He continues on until your words aren’t even audible to him.

“Look at you.” Arthur rambles, putting a hand on your throat, still holding your other leg. 

“So fucking full with my cock, I didn’t think you’d like it like this, guess I was- oh fuck~ mistaken.” You don’t say anything, you couldn’t even if you wanted to, but you felt yourself nearing yet another orgasm. 

“I’m gonna have to pull….ah~ out soon.” Arthur warns, not slowing down or easing back even slightly. Your eyes are still shut tight, so fucking close yourself. And then you experience it, your stomach swirling in ethereal waves as your own slick pours down his cock and your pussy. He pulls out, spinning his body away and letting the warm white liquid spill onto himself. 

When you finally open your eyes, you notice him wiping himself down with a nearby washcloth. He wipes your thighs down too and pulls you in so you’re lying down besides each other. 

“Well I think we got what we needed from this party.” He says, letting out a soft laugh. You nod.

“Thank god the guards didn’t hear all that.”

“Ah yes, what would daddy’s guards think?” You hit him playfully. 

“Let’s go.” You say and he nods, getting up and grabbing his clothes from the ground.

“So now you’re authoritative.” He mutters to himself. 

[say-hwaet]

That's the Way it Is

Chapter Fifteen: Anchor Next Chapter: Sixteen Summary: Now that Kit and Arthur are finally past the first hump, there are repressed feelings that threaten to break through the surface. Arthur is in a dangerous sea of emotions. But, thankfully, he has an anchor. Word Count: ~13,200 Warnings: Mature themes, language, sensual stuff

You drag your feet out of your tent, rubbing your eyes. You’ve been with the gang for about a year now, and have come to know the few members that are in it. You’ve also begun to learn your place under the protection of Hosea. Since he brought you here, he’s taken on an almost fatherly role, and is eager to prove to the leader, Dutch Van Der Linde, that you are a valuable member. 

But one thing you’ve been struggling with these past few weeks, is sleep. 

It is not because you aren’t comfortable or go to bed at a terrible hour, no, it is because of an instinct you’ve had since you were young, since Antek was your responsibility. 

A simple whimper, or a whisper of your name, would wake you and you’d go to him. You’d find him wherever he was, and cradle him in your arms until he was comforted and fell back asleep. 

But now, that instinct has transferred to someone else. 

Your feet finding their way in the dark, you pull the tent flap back and the whimpering grows louder. It is a juvenile cry, a voice announcing disrupted reverie with things that really happened. 

You go to the boy, finding his sleeping form on his cot. Sitting down so you aren’t imposing on him, you gently bring him into your arms. 

He clings to you, completely unaware. In fact, he never knows, caught in a veil between sleeplessness and dreams. 

“Please, don’t…!” the boy cries. “Leave me alone…!”

“Shhh…” you whisper softly. “It’s alright.”

You’re tempted to hum, to sing the lullaby you know so well, but you can’t bring yourself to do it. Instead, you rock the fourteen-year-old back and forth. 

And after several minutes, his body relaxes and his breathing slows. 

You lean down and kiss the top of his head, something he’d never let you do while he’s awake. He reminds you so much of him. So much of the brother that you lost. 

“Sladké sny, John,” you say. 

Sweet dreams. 

***

Tap! Tap! Tap! “Arthur…? Arthur, you in there…?”

You awake to John’s soft whisper behind the door, somehow still attuned to his voice. You motion to rise, and find yourself pressed against something firm. 

Something more firm than a pillow. 

In the darkness, with the moon still casting a faint glow through the window, you lift your head slowly…

And see Arthur sleeping beside you. 

He lays on top of the comforter, his boots off and toes twitching in his sleep. Your body is turned toward him, as though he were your anchor, and your body a sea vessel. You could drown in his eyes if he were to open them and look into yours. 

You smell the tobacco and leather and smile, now you know why you’ve taken to liking it so easily. 

You don’t want to break it, this fragile moment, this vulnerability. To see him so calm and peaceful stirs your heart in ways that you had wished to remember. He’s been stern, sullen, savage, but now he’s reduced to peace. 

You reach up, carefully taking his face in your hands. He still doesn’t move. 

You can’t believe it. He loves you. Arthur has loved you, and you two have loved each other for the past two years or so. And it was a secret? It is clear that many suspected something, but you can’t fathom how you both managed to not be open about it. 

You don’t remember. You hoped to have a dream about that day, the day you both declared your love for each other. You want to remember it, to feel it, like you did that kiss on the cliff nine years ago. You try to piece it together, to try to imagine when and where it was, but you are coming up empty.

You may not get your memories back. You may never find out what happened that day in Blackwater. All you know is how it left you and how it made Arthur feel. Your heart aches for him, knowing that he suffered alone, not sharing it with anyone. 

You have a feeling that is over now. 

Tap! Tap! “Arthur…!”

John isn’t going to wait. Soon he’ll open the door and see Arthur like this. The poor man is too private of a person, that would surely upset him. 

Planting a soft kiss on Arthur’s nose, you carefully let yourself out from under the covers and crawl out of the bed. Arthur slumps deeper into the pillows and it takes every bit of you to not return. 

But John’s tapping might eventually wake your neighbors and you hurry to the door. Turning it quietly, you open the door and meet John’s eyes. 

His eyes widen. “You’re awake…!” You quickly back away from the door and he steps in before you close the door behind him. Before you can do anything else, John quickly wraps you in his arms. “Hell, I missed you!”

You smile and pat your brother on the back. “I missed you too, John.”

He’s quiet for a moment and you feel him squeeze you tighter. “Thank you…for…I don’t know how to say it.”

You tighten your arms around him. “Is he safe?”

John answers through quivering lips. “Yeah. Jack is safe.”

You sigh. You’re relieved that the Braithewaites fulfilled their end of the deal. 

Deal. You remember the one you made with Bronte. Or rather, the one you were forced to make, and your heart sinks at the thought. 

“This isn’t over.”

John sighs and lets you out of his arms. “I know, sis, but we gotta go.”

“Now?”

And you hear Arthur speak quietly behind you. “Now.”

You and John turn to see him sitting up on the bed, putting on his boots. “The sun will be up soon. We need to get out of Saint Denis before Bronte’s eyes see us.”

You nod, remembering what the Italian had said to you, the underlying threat that he knows everything that goes on in “his city.” “Just tell me what to do.”

His eyes meet yours and he smiles. “I’ve missed you.”

You feel your cheeks burn and you tuck your chin, biting your lower lip. 

It is then that John’s eyes widen as he regards the bed. “Wait, did you two—?”

You quickly whip around, slapping John’s arm. “No, John! Quit with that…!”

He recoils, rubbing his arm. “Ow! Hell, woman!”

“Be quiet!” Arthur whispers, rising to a standing position. “We need to move. Now.”

Arthur’s right. Time is of the essence. There isn’t much to gather up, you didn’t have anything with you except for the clothes on your back, but you don’t have those anymore. Arthur and John gather their things quietly. The less attention you draw to yourselves the better.

“If we go out the front, people will see us,” John whispers. “The Saloon never closes.”

He has a point. As you three silently think about it, your attention is drawn to the window.

You get an idea.

"Let's use the alley," you suggest, voice barely above a whisper. Your eyes scan the shadows cast by the moonlight, outlining a narrow path free from the usual nighttime drifters and drunks.

Arthur nods in agreement, his face set in a grim determination. "Good thinkin’," he murmurs, and carefully opens the window. He sticks his head out and lets a puff of air escape his lips. “That’s a long way down.”

You come up behind him, letting your fingers trace along his back. “What, are you afraid of heights, Mr. Morgan?”

The teasing tone in your voice makes him chuckle, a low rumble that momentarily lightens the tension. "Not at all," he replies, turning to give you a quick, reassuring smile. "Just considerin' our options."

John is already moving towards the window, his usual impatience taking over. "Well, let's not dawdle here chattin' about it." He swings one leg over the sill, then stops and looks back at the two of you. "Are you comin’ or not?"

Arthur checks the pistol holstered at his side before he nods at you, signaling it's time to move. You edge closer to the window and look down as John grabs a drain pipe and shimmies on his way down. “Didn’t think you were a climber, John.”

Arthur nudges you. “He’s had a bit of practice recently.”

“Shut up…!” John barks through clenched teeth, trying to keep quiet.

And in a playful gesture, Arthur makes a sweep of his arm toward the window. “Ladies first.”

You do the honors, first removing your shoes. “I’m glad to be rid of these…” And after hiking up your dress to allow mobility in your legs, you see Arthur’s eyes cast downward. “Well, Arthur, I thought you were a gentleman…”

He clears his throat and looks through the window and down at John. “Keep a lookout, Marston!”

With a quick, playful wink thrown his way, you take Arthur’s offered hand and helps you into the window frame. The cool metal of the drainpipe feels uneasy under your grip; it's older, less reliable than the sturdy beams and ropes you had mastered back in your circus days. But necessity pushes you onward, and with careful, measured movements, you use your bare feet against the brick of the saloon to support your way down. Once your feet touch the ground, you look back up. “Careful, Arthur. That drain pipe might give out under your weight.”

Arthur's laughter rolls down from above, a rich sound that briefly warms the chill of the evening air. "I reckon it'll hold just fine," he calls back, already halfway through the window. 

You watch as he positions himself carefully, his movements deliberate and practiced—a reminder of the many times he's escaped tighter spots than this. You can’t help but eye his backside, biting your lower lip. “The view is quite nice from down here…”

John chuckles from his spot by the alleyway, glancing up at the scene unfolding above him. "Will you two quit flirtin' and get a move on?"

Arthur lands beside you with a soft thud, his boots stirring a small cloud of dust from the dry ground. He straightens himself and gives you a lingering look, his eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and something softer, something achingly tender. "Quit flirtin', he says,” Arthur mocks gently, adjusting the brim of his hat. "As if there's somethin' wrong with admiring beauty under the moonlight."

You feel a blush creep on your cheeks and you cover them with your hands.

“Hell,” John mutters. “I liked it when you forgot you two had a thing.”

You glance at John, the corners of your mouth tilting up in a faint smile. "Well, it's hard to forget when he's always reminding me," you tease, nodding towards Arthur.

Arthur chuckles, his gaze still fixed on you with that same tender look. He reaches out, brushing a stray lock of your hair. “John’s got a point, though. We best move on.”

You sigh, nodding your head. “Did you bring your horses?”

John nods. “I hitched ‘em around the corner last night.”

Arthur nods approvingly. “Good thinkin’, John.” And he makes his way down the alley. “Maybe the wolves ate all your brain after all.”

John shakes his head, letting out a sigh. You pat him reassuringly and after sharing a look, you both follow Arthur out.

Sure enough, Montana and Old Boy are hitched nearby, waiting. After checking the coast is clear, you three crouch low in the shadowed areas of the street and reach the horses. John wastes no time in mounting Old Boy. “If we go down this way, it leads out toward Lagras. It’s quieter, but it’s longer.”

Arthur hoists himself on Montana and offering his arm, you take it and use it to swing yourself up behind him. You immediately take his waist, pressing your body close against him. “Quiet is what we need.”

John raises a brow. “Are you sure you can handle that?” he teases.

“Drive, Marston…!” Arthur orders under his breath.

And together, you three gallop down the street that leads to the outskirts of the city.

You three remain quiet as you pass through the slums of Saint Denis and little by little, the view becomes less shanty and wooden fences, and more marsh, water, and moon. It feels good to be leaving Saint Denis, though you know in three days you will have to return.

You remember what Bronte told you before he gave you that strange tea. “Get as much information that you can from this oil magnate. I want to know everything about his operations, who he’s tied up with, and how deep his pockets run. Understand?” His words were wrapped in velvet but carried the sting of iron nails. You had nodded, unable to anticipate the whirlwind your life would become thereafter. “When you return, I want you to report back to me, and then I will have your next task.” You aren’t sure how you are going to manage this, considering you aren’t going to see Mr. Cornwall at all. Maybe Hosea can help you figure out a plan that will placate the Italian, long enough for you to navigate your way out of his clutches. 

As you ride through the cooling night, the murmur of insects and distant cranes seem almost comforting compared to the chaos of the city. Arthur’s presence in front of you is steady and warm, his body a familiar contour against your own. You remember nights like these, before memory slipped away from you like sand through fingers—nights filled with whispered secrets and stolen kisses, hidden beneath the vast expanse of stars.

You hope to be married to this man one day. Maybe, when all of the chaos is over. The thought brings a bittersweet ache to your chest, a mixture of longing and fear. Fear that the same fate which had torn you from Arthur before could strike again, leaving your dreams as nothing more than whispered wishes in the wind. But tonight, under the canopy of the night sky, those fears are momentarily calmed by the palm of his hand as he gently places it over yours.

You let out a deep exhale, resting your forehead against his spine.

“Won’t be long now, Kit,” Arthur says softly. “You’ll be home.”

***

The ride was long, and it took everything that you had to stay awake. You didn’t want to run the risk of falling off, but you also wanted so desperately to be awake to soak in the time with Arthur. The landscape changed hardly at all, the woods and marshes thick with wildlife, you could hear alligators rumbling as they sensed the horses.

And you get to watch the sunrise just as you near Shady Belle.

John leads the way to your new home, a narrow road that is guarded by trees. Curious, you weakly look around Arthur to see someone guarding the entrance.

It is Charles.

And before he can even ask who it is, he sees John, then Arthur, then you.

“Hey!” he calls out to everyone. “They got Kit! Kit’s back…!”

The announcement creates a chain reaction in you and you squeeze Arthur tight, your eyes stinging with tears. You weren’t sure when you would be amongst your family again.

The relief flowing through you feels like the first rain after a long drought, refreshing and vital. Arthur's grip tightens around your hand in response, it both protective and reassuring. The familiarity of the gesture stirs memories deep within, flickers of your past life with him igniting in your mind.

Charles follows you three into camp and you see people begin to gather around the horses. John dismounts and embraces Abigail, who shares relief to have him back after two days, and in the joy that you have returned.

Arthur, twisting at his waist, helps you slide off Montana and land on your feet.

As Charles approaches, his face breaks into a broad smile, his weathered features softening with genuine affection. "Can't believe my eyes, Kit. We thought..."

Tears brim in your own eyes as he reaches out, pulling you into a rough embrace, the kind only shared between those who have endured hardships together.

“You just can’t seem to get rid of me, Charles,” you chuckle, and you hear others laugh softly with you. He holds you out at arm's length and you smile. “I’m so happy to be back.”

You begin to walk towards the group and feel Arthur close behind you, it makes your heart flitter knowing he's there, like a shadow you’d long forgotten the shape of but immediately recognize once it’s cast again. The rustle of leaves and the soft murmur of voices welcome you back into the fold, and for a moment, everything feels slightly surreal.

Sadie steps forward with a grin, rough and resolute as she was when you last saw her. “Did you get to kill anyone while you was gone?”

You snort and wrap her in a hug. She doesn’t resist and you feel her pat your back once.

You let her go and look around at the other faces. Mary Beth, with tears in her eyes. “Dobrý den, příteli.”

And she nods, mouthing the words back to you.

“Aunt Kit…!!!” Jack charges at you, and you scoop down to pick him up. You hold him tightly, planting soft kisses on his head. He giggles joyfully. 

“Oh, Jack, I’m so glad you’re safe!”

Keeping him in your arms, you look out to see more familiar faces: Tilly, Jack, Kieran, Lenny, Bill, Pearson, Uncle, Susan, Hosea…

And your eyes fall on Karen. She doesn’t wear a smile, her eyes convey a deep sorrow. Something isn’t right. “Karen?” The gathering falls silent and you take a step toward her. “What’s wrong?”

You feel a hand take your arm and you turn to see Arthur. “There weren’t a good time to tell you…”

Your brow pinches and you set Jack down. “What is it?”

He swallows, his eyes soft. “Sean…is dead.”

The news hits you like a punch, sudden and breath-stealing. For a moment, you can't breathe, the world around you blurring into a mess of colors and sounds that make no sense. Sean—the young, vibrant lad with so much life ahead of him—gone. Your knees weaken, and if not for Arthur catching you, you would have fallen to the ground.

“Sean? Dead?”

“Yes, darlin’,” Arthur says as you lean into his arms. “I couldn’t…”

“You did all you could, Arthur,” Hosea says solemnly. “Nobody blames you for that.”

Karen begins to sob and Tilly hugs her. What was starting to be a happy reunion is turning into a somber remembrance. The air grows thick with the scent of sorrow, as if the very atmosphere mourns with you. You pull yourself from Arthur's arms, standing straight despite the heaviness in your heart.

"We need to honor him," you say, your voice steady though it trembles at the edges. “Did he have a burial?”

You see Karen nod. “Yes.”

“But it was rushed,” you assume. “If you all ended up here, you must have left recently.” Everyone nods, validating your assumption. “What happened?”

“Kit!” The booming voice coming out of the mansion has everyone turning around. Dutch comes out, his smile not meeting his eyes. “How did—?” And then he looks at Arthur and John. “You boys brought her back?”

Arthur nods, a hand laying protectively on your shoulder. “Yeah, Dutch. We did.”

Dutch tilts his head. “Bronte had her?”

“Yeah, Dutch. He had plans to use her,” John answers with a bite  

Dutch raises his brow, his eyelids lowering as he studies you and your attire. “For what, I wonder?”

You feel a twinge of discomfort at Dutch's tone, but you stand firm, meeting his gaze with a quiet strength. "Doesn't matter now," you say, the edge in your voice sharper than intended. "I'm not a pawn in anyone's game anymore."

Dutch chuckles lightly, a sound that doesn’t feel comforting at all. “Of course, you’re not, Kit. You’re one of us,” he assures with a sweeping gesture that encompasses the somber group. His attempt at reassurance doesn't settle the unease in your stomach; his words sound hollow, almost rehearsed.

“Thank you, Dutch,” you reply cautiously, not fully convinced of his remark. “But it isn’t over, yet.”

Hosea steps closer. “What do you mean, Kit?”

You feel everyone’s eyes on you now, much more than you would prefer. Every performance, every time you walked a tightrope or danced, none of them have given you so great anxiety.

You feel Arthur squeeze your shoulder and he looks at Hosea. “It’s been a long trip, Hosea…”

Hosea seems to understand, giving a soft nod. “We can talk about it later. For now, get some rest, have something to eat, and we'll gather by the fire tonight. We need to discuss our next steps as a family.” His voice carries a weight, an undercurrent of solemnity that matches the circumstance.

You nod, grateful for the momentary reprieve. As the group disperses, Arthur’s grip on your shoulder lingers a little longer, his presence reassuring amidst the swirling uncertainty. He leans in close, his voice low and steady. "You alright, Kit?"

You nod slightly, too exhausted to muster more. "Just tired, Arthur. It's been... a lot."

Arthur’s eyes search yours for a moment longer before he nods understandingly. "Let’s get you set up then, Susan’s been keepin’ your things safe.” Just as he starts to lead you, you grab his hand and pull him back. You see his ears turn pink at your open gesture and you catch Mary Beth and Pearson watching you.

“I want to see Odliv. She here?”

Arthur smiles. “She found her way back to us.” Expecting for him to let go of your hand, he doesn’t and you can’t help but smile. “Let’s go see her.”

As you walk toward the horses, you catch Mary Beth’s grin and you avert her gaze by staring at your feet with every stride. Your cheeks burn and you know it won’t be long before she will start with her parade of questions when she catches you alone.

Arthur leads you past the edge of the camp, where the horses are tethered, their breath misting in the air. Odliv, your faithful mare, hears your approach and lifts her head, nickering softly. Arthur chuckles beside you, his hand still warm in yours. "She missed you, Kit," he says softly, his eyes not leaving you.

You reach your free hand up to her and pet her slowly. “I don’t deserve her,” you say soberly. “Twice now, we’ve been separated. I’ve failed her.”

“Don’t say things like that.”

“It’s true,” you sigh. “If I were a good owner, she wouldn’t have been put in danger those times.”

Arthur shakes his head, the frown creasing his brow deepening. “Odliv ain’t holdin’ no grudges, Kit. Animals know who loves 'em, and with that mare, there’s no doubt of your love and care.”

You lower your head and smile. You know he means every word.

You squeeze his hand. “Thank you, můj král.”

He squeezes it back. “You’re welcome.”

You feel your knees feel weak, the fatigue finally unable to be fought off. “I think I’m ready to lie down, now.”

“You want me to carry you?”

“And have everyone see?” You feel your cheeks grow hot. “I don’t think so.”

Suddenly, he lifts you effortlessly, a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he ignores your protest. "Well, I reckon they've seen worse," he murmurs with a low chuckle, and you can't help but laugh, the sound mingling with the morning air.

Arthur carries you back toward the camp, his arms strong and stable, your arms wrapped around his neck. If you were concerned about the stares when you were holding hands, you are certainly getting your fill of them now as he strides confidently through the camp. Despite your chiding, you feel a sense of comfort being thus enfolded, his presence a shield against the world.

As he sets you down gently next to a small, fire-warmed tent, you catch sight of Mary Beth again. She is sitting by the fire, a book open in her lap, but she's not reading. Her eyes follow you and Arthur, a soft smile playing on her lips. She knows, perhaps more than others, the trials that love can bring; and in her look, there is an understanding, almost an encouragement.

Arthur notices your glance and follows it to Mary Beth. He gives her a brief nod, an unspoken acknowledgment passing between them before he turns his focus back to you.

"You gonna be alright here while I get some water?" Arthur asks, brow furrowed slightly with concern.

You nod, feeling the soft earth beneath you, the warmth from the fire. “Don’t be too long, or I might just sleep where I’m at.”

He lets a warm chuckle escape his lips before he rises and walks away.

You feel Mary Beth’s gaze still on you and without lifting your eyes, you decide to call her out. “Alright, Mary Beth, you going to tell me why you haven’t turned a page yet?” You keep your voice light, teasing, though a part of you genuinely wants to understand her silent conversation.

She closes her book with a soft thud and leans towards you, her expression open and a bit wistful. “I think I’ve found somethin’ much more interestin’.”

You look up at her and lift a brow. “Oh?” Then look back down again, fiddling with a button on your dress. “I don’t know what you mean.”

She must tell you are messing with her, for she tosses her book at you and you catch it in your hands, laughing.

“Come now, don’t play coy with me, Kit,” she chides gently, her voice rich with the drama of a seasoned storyteller. “It’s clear as day. You and Arthur, whatever it is that’s brewin’ between you—it’s somethin’ fierce.” She shakes her head. “I’m startin’ to regret not takin’ a peak at that journal when I snatched it.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t, either.”

She gasps. “What?! After all that? I did that thievin' for nothing?”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Not exactly…” While the idea of keeping a secret gnaws at the back of your mind, you have a feeling it would be mute. “I think it’s safe to say…” You bite your bottom lip, thinking of the last kiss you shared. “I think we’re in a courtship.”

Mary Beth’s eyes light up, a grin spreading across her face, as if she’s just heard the most delicious gossip. “A courtship, is it?” Her tone teases, but there’s an undeniable warmth there, a sisterly kind of approval. “Well, I reckon that beats any love story in all the books I’ve read!”

You look at her incredulously. “Even with all them…love scenes?”

She blushes, gasping. “Don’t mean to tell me you’ve—!”

And you quickly hold up a palm, shaking your head. “No! No, it hasn’t…come to that…”

She nods. “Oh, good! ‘Cause that would have meant I missed your wedding.”

You’re grateful she still respects that aspect of you. Even though it was only just a week or so ago, you would have gone that far with Arthur, if he hadn’t stopped you. You smile and shake your head. “No, we aren’t married.” You sigh, the weight of the unspoken words heavy between you. “But I wouldn’t mind it.” Your voice is a whisper, a confession that feels as vast as the open prairies you used to explore in.

Your fingers go to trace where your mother's ring would be, but when the Braithewaites kidnapped you, you woke up to find it gone. You figure it’s lost now, perhaps sequestered away along with the other supposed treasure the Braithewaites were supposed to have. Your heart sinks a little deeper, but you figure that you’ve lost so much already, that there isn’t a point in dwelling on the pain of its loss. 

Mary Beth reaches out and takes your hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. “Well, maybe that can still happen for you.”

You nod. “Maybe.”

“Hope you ladies haven’t been talkin’ bad about me.” You twist at your waist and look up to see Arthur with a tin cup. He squats down and when he meets your eyes, he offers it to you. “Be a shame since I weren’t there to defend myself.”

You chuckle softly and bring the cup to your lips to drink the water. It isn’t like the fresh water from the Heartlands, but you are so thirsty, you don’t care.

Mary Beth rests her hands on her hips, a playful smile on her face. “Kit won’t speak ill of you even if her life depended on it.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow, a wry smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Is that so?” His voice is teasing, but there's an undercurrent of something more tender, a softness reserved just for you.

“Yes,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper, the knowledge of years of friendship and love making your answer more confident, more intimate. You finish your water and hand the cup back to him.

“Would rather you bruise my ego if it meant you lived.” He takes the cup and holds it by the rim in between his fingers. “I reckon you oughta get some rest, now.”

You nod. “Okay.”

He helps you to your feet and you walk over to the small tent. Crawling inside, you see your belongings and sigh, glad to see them again. You lay on top of your bedroll and tucking your arm underneath your head for support, you find yourself falling asleep.

***

By the time you wake up, it is dark again. It feels like in the last few days you’ve hardly seen the sun. You can’t wait to go back to sleep again, to sleep the darkness away. You keep having more dreams and the promise of morning after rest excites you. 

This last dream you had was about your family. The circus. The first day you had begun performing on horses. You had trained a gelding to parade in a circle as you stood on his back, keeping your balance as he cantered around and around. 

The thrill excited you in your dream, and when you woke up, the excitement was tinged with a headache. They’ve been occurring less and less, but occasionally you’ll have a good one, and this is one of those times. 

You rub your temple as you crawl out of the tent, and you hear Javier playing on his guitar nearby. There are others gathered around, swaying to the song that he plays and sings. It is a contrast to the sullenness you all felt earlier, given the revelation that Sean had been killed. 

Oh, Sean. He had a way to get under your skin, despite his propensity to annoy you for sport. You still don’t have any memories of him, but you will hold onto the new ones. 

As you rise to your feet, Javier looks in your direction and spots you just as he finishes his song. “Ey, Kit, come join us!”

You smile and stretch before approaching them. As you look at all of their fire-glowed faces, you don’t see Arthur among them. Maybe he went to go rest like you did? Where does he sleep?

Tilly, holding Karen’s hand, pats an empty space on the other side of her. “Sit by me, Kit.”

Brushing past Karen, you sit opposite Tilly and feel Susan pat your shoulder as she walks behind you. 

“We should celebrate now that Kit is back!” Uncle insists. “I could use a party.”

“You just want a reason to get drunk,” Charles grumbles. 

Uncle chuckles undeniably. “And what’s wrong with that?”

Charles groans, shaking his head.

You’re glad to be back. Though most of your past still eludes you, this feels familiar and safe. The opulence and luxury in Saint Denis could never compare to the open air and fire smoke. 

You look around and notice that your best friend, Mary Beth, isn’t among you. You turn to Tilly and whisper close to her ear. “Where did Mary Beth go?”

She gives you a mischievous side eye and smirks. “Gettin’ some inspiration for her next novel.”

Karen actually lets out a snort. “And it’s about time too.” She reaches across Tilly and pokes your thigh. “You’re next, Kit. I see it comin’ for you.”

Trying to ignore your blushing cheeks, you shake your head. “You presume too much. Mary Beth could be alone.”

Tilly looks around with exaggeration. “Oh? Do you see Kieran around here?”

And you quickly retort with, “Well, I don’t see Arthur here, either. Are you going to tell me—?”

“I’m right here.”

Your words are swallowed in your mouth at the sound of Arthur’s voice behind you. You and the girls turn at your waists and your eyes travel upward in a pleasurable way. 

But when you meet his eyes, you don’t see a smile. “Arthur? What is it?”

He gestures behind him with a light toss of his head. “Hosea and Dutch wanna talk to you.”

Oh. It must be about Bronte. 

You nod and motion to get up, lifting your dress so you can step over the log. You find it a relief when he offers his arm to you and smiling, you take it and let him escort you toward the mansion. 

“Where do you sleep?” you ask. 

“Inside. John and Abigail are in there, too.”

“And Dutch?”

Arthur nods. “Him too, Molly’s with him…sometimes.”

Your brow pinches. “Sometimes?”

You both near the house and you can hear the raised voice of Hosea, he sounds upset. 

Arthur leans close to you and speaks quietly. “I’ll tell you later.” And with that, he opens the door and lets you step in first. 

Inside, the room feels warmer than the night air, crowded with intense emotions and thick cigar smoke that makes the walls seem to close in. It is dark, aside from a light coming from another room.

You feel a gentle hand on your back, and hear Arthur speak to you quietly. “In here.”

With a gentle push, Arthur guides you towards the lit room. Walking into the threshold, you see Dutch Van Der Linde standing near the fireplace, his broad back illuminated by the flickering light of a lantern, while Hosea sits at a table covered in maps and papers, a look of frustration evident on his face.

“There is nothing for us here, Dutch. There are much better places that we could go to that would prove more successful. I say we move out as quick as possible and lay low.”

“But Kit has given us an opportunity here!” He looks up at you, his eyes looking at you with great intensity. “Haven’t you, Kit?”

You shift on your feet. “I wouldn’t say that it is an opportunity…” you begin. “I would say that it is something that I didn’t have choice but to do it.”

Hosea looks at you with concern. “What did Bronte have you do, Kit?”

You look up at Arthur, and you can see the tightness in his jaw. You aren’t sure if he knows, but the fact that he was the one who got you…

He must have seen you. Dressed that way, dancing with fire.

You swallow and look back at Dutch. “He wants me to spy for him.”

Dutch’s expression shifts, the lines around his mouth tightening as he processes your words. Hosea rubs his forehead, the weight of the situation evident. "Spying, Kit?" He glances between you and Dutch, shaking his head slowly.

Dutch steps closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “On who? Us?”

You remember all of the information that Bronte had on you, your past with the circus, and the talents that you’ve mastered over your lifetime. You shake your head. “If he knows who we are, he has other means to get that information.” You pause. “He believes that I’m under the care of Mr. Cornwall’s men.” You look up at Arthur again. “Entertaining them.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow slightly, a shadow of distress flickering across his features, quickly masked by a hardened resolve. "That rascal Bronte," he mutters under his breath, his voice laced with a tinge of anger and concern. “is a sick bastard.”

Dutch smirks lightly, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “The important thing is, Kitka, what do you think of all this?” Dutch’s hand reaches out, resting it on your shoulder with a weight heavy enough to feel like an anchor pulling you back into this life of shadows and schemes.

You look around the room, the eyes of the men who had become your makeshift family starting back when you were just a girl. Oh, how things have changed, from that portrait you took with them to now this.

You swallow. “I think I cannot raise suspicion. If he has any idea of who we are or where we are, we might as well turn ourselves in to the Pinkertons now.”

“You think he has connections with them?” Hosea asks.

You look at him, unflinching. “It wouldn’t surprise me. He had me dance in front of some of his “investors,” he calls them.”

“Arthur mentioned this party,” Dutch says methodically. “At the mayor’s house. Bronte wants you there?”

You sigh. “Yes, he does. To probably entertain or get information, no doubt.”

Dutch nods, stroking his mustache. “And so will we.”

Hosea clearly dislikes this idea. “Dutch! It would be enough having John and Arthur go back with her. But to have us there will be like wearing a target on our backs. A sign that says, ‘kill me now!’”

Dutch’s eyes gleam with that dangerous kind of excitement that you’ve learned to both respect and fear. “Sometimes, Hosea, the best place to hide is right under the enemy’s nose.”

“Like how we did in Rhodes?” Arthur steps forward, his presence like a shield in itself. “I’m not letting her walk into that lion's den again, Dutch. Not this time.” His voice is firm, resolute, and it’s clear that his decision is final.

You look up at Arthur, feeling a mixture of relief and concern wash over you. His protectiveness brings you a sense of security, yet the danger of not doing what Bronte wanted of you feels just as threatening. The lines on Arthur's face, carved deep with the turmoil of past regrets and unspoken promises, seem to tighten. The silence that follows is charged, each person in the room holding their breath, knowing the gravity of what defiance might bring.

"Then I reckon we best be prepared," Dutch finally says. “You, me, Kit, and Hosea will go. Just us.” He looks at you. “You will spy for us, as well as for him.”

What?

“He wanted information on Cornwall,” you remind him. “How do you suppose that I do that when I am not anywhere near him?”

Dutch dismisses your concern with a statement of his own. “I thought coming up with stories on a dime was one of your many talents.” He grins slyly. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Arthur’s jaw clenches, a silent fury building like a storm on the horizon. It’s clear that he doesn't want you anywhere near those men, but he’s too hesitant to say anything.

Dutch turns to Hosea. “Any objections, friend?”

The room falls silent as you all wait patiently for Hosea’s verdict.

Hosea lets out a slow, deliberate breath, his eyes reflecting a tempered spark of resistance. "Dutch, my concerns don't change the tides," he starts with a weary tone, the weight of years spent on the fringes of society pressing down upon his words. "But if we're to do this, we need to look our best, act our best, and above all, keep our intentions hidden deep beneath the surface." Hosea's gaze flickers to you briefly, a silent message of both warning and reassurance passed in that short exchange. "Kitka is capable, but even the finest blade can snap under too much pressure."

Dutch nods, seeming satisfied with Hosea's cautious endorsement. His hand pats Hosea’s back, approvingly, and he motions to leave the room. “I guess that’s the plan then. We have two days. I suggest you find some dirt on Cornwall, Kit, and ready yourself for the ball.”

He turns around the corner to head up into his room, leaving the three of you in the silence of the decision.

You can’t remain silent for long, your eyes casting pleading glances to Hosea. “Are we really doing this?”

He nods slowly. “I believe so, my dear.”

Your brow furrows, a heated anger building in your chest. “Just to obey? Without question?”

Hosea answers tiredly, running a hand down his face. “It is less of a matter of question and more about the results, Kit. This could go either way, and if we are able to charm our way to Bronte, we might come out of this better off.”

“He has his tendrils all throughout the city, Hosea,” you say. “I don’t think he’s open to having any allies right now.”

Hosea lowers his head, his face showing more fatigue and age than in the past few months. You imagine this has all taken a toll on him, and you have a feeling, by his downcast gaze, he has burdens that weigh heavy on his heart and mind. “And I don’t think we are applying for that position.”

“You think Dutch wants to take Bronte out?” Arthur asks lowly.

Hosea shrugs. “I don’t know, Arthur, but if Bronte is the one with money and power…Well, you know how Dutch is.”

Your heart beats a little faster at the implications, cold dread mingling with the adrenal rush of an impending heist. The thought of going head-to-head with Angelo Bronte, a man as notorious in these parts as the plague, sends shivers down your spine. Yet, there’s an undeniable thrill in the challenge, to have Arthur there this time, at your side, finding Bronte’s weakness and exploiting it, after what he was planning on making you do. 

But you feel defeated still. “I don’t know where to begin, if we only have two days.”

Hosea shrugs. “Perhaps start where we last saw Cornwall’s signature.”

Arthur’s brow pinches. “Valentine?”

“No,” Hosea says calmly. “The oil fields.”

You nod slowly, absorbing Hosea's words. The oil fields - of course. Where the influence of men like Cornwall spreads thick like the black gold that seeps from the ground. "The oil fields," you repeat, tasting the words, your mind already turning over every known detail about the locale.

Arthur leans against the wooden table. “I guess we gotta start somewhere.”

Hosea nods. “It would be best if you left at first light.” He eyes you both. “You should go together.” And a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I have a feeling you two make a great team.”

Arthur looks at you, openly taking your hand. “I reckon we do.” And you feel the heat in your cheeks. 

Hosea’s smile grows. “Good.” And he gently waves you off. “Go ahead and do what you need to do to get ready, Kit. I want to talk to Arthur for a moment.”

You give Arthur a reassuring squeeze before releasing his hand and stepping away. As you leave Hosea and Arthur to their private conversation, you can’t help but feel a tingle of excitement mixed with nerves. The oil fields are dangerously guarded, but you’ve navigated perilous situations before, in fact, you just escaped from one.

But what excites you the most, is to be able to enter danger with Arthur by your side.

You step out into the evening air, hearing the faint music and singing from the fire. You think to look for Mary Beth, curiosity entering your mind and you walk down the front steps. 

“Glad to see you back…” The voice of Micah Bell makes you stop in your stride. You turn on your heels to see him leaning against one of the columns of the mansion. He tips his hat at you, but it still speaks vile. “We…missed you.”

You tilt your head, your eyes narrowing. “Oh, Micah, don’t ever say things you don’t mean. It isn’t a good look for you.”

And just as you see his jaw tighten and his face darken, you turn and walk away. 

You just realize that you’d prefer Bronte to Micah. At least he can make a convincing liar. 

***

You and Arthur left at dawn. Riding Montana and Odliv, you took with you enough provisions for the trip and your chosen weaponry. 

Catching the sunrise, you and Arthur ride North in the direction of the Heartland Oil Fields, where you know Cornwall’s operation is still going strong. As you ride, the air changes from thick and humid, to clear and crisp, and you find yourself taking more deep breaths and enjoying the scenery.

It feels odd to be back this way again, as though it has been years, but it is only months. You find yourself constantly looking Arthur’s way, and when he turns to look at you, you don’t avert his gaze, but hold it, just long enough before you have to focus on what is ahead of you.

The journey is mostly silent, the unspoken words hanging between you like the mist that clings to the morning fields. You appreciate these quiet moments, knowing well that they are fleeting, especially as you draw closer to your destination, where the unknown may greet you.

Arthur finally breaks the silence as you near a hill covered in sagebrush. “You ever get that feelin', Kit? Like somethin's waitin' right over the next hill?” His voice carries a mix of anticipation and caution, typical of a man who's seen as much as he has.

You nod, understanding completely. “Ano, every time.” Your use of your native tongue slips easily now, and you find yourself thinking and speaking it more and more. “But this is quite literal, isn’t it?”

You both reach the top and stop for a moment looking out at the landscape below.

Arthur chuckles, leaning over the saddle horn. “Yeah, I guess. But I also meant it not so literally.” He pauses a moment and lets out a deep sigh. “I mean that you get to a point where you’re tired, but if you just make it to the next hill—”

“And the next one? And the next one?”

Arthur laughs, getting your point, and finishes his thought. “But you never seem to get there.”

You study him for a moment. “Do you think this is a fool’s errand?”

He shrugs, “I don’t know what I think. It all seems like a mess, all this with Bronte. I just…” He sits back up and looks away from you.

“You think he’s going to hurt me, don’t you?”

Arthur shifts uncomfortably in his saddle, the leather creaking under his weight. He doesn’t meet your gaze this time, instead staring out across the sprawling expanse before him. His jaw clenches, a telltale sign of his inner turmoil. “It ain’t just about him, Kit,” he finally says, voice lower than usual, strained with unsaid thoughts. “It’s about this whole damned situation. We’re walkin’ into trouble, and I can’t stand the thought of you gettin’ hurt.”

You let the silence settle around his words, feeling the weight of them pressing against your chest. The brisk wind picks up, dust flying and you have to squint your eyes. You two are alone here, the most you have been in a while. You’ve tried to remember what Arthur has told you, keeping your love a secret, but it has all come empty, aside from the blips that you’ve had in your dreams for the past few months. “Have you ever thought about…you know…leaving?”

That’s when he looks at you, eyes widened at your suggestion. “Have you?”

You shrug. It hadn’t really occurred to you, at least not until recently. You can sense things are changing, twisting into something that you can’t control. Dutch’s plans have become more erratic, more, well, planless. He seems to make decisions on a whim. “I don’t know, I just think that we can’t do this forever.”

Arthur's brow furrows as he considers your words, the tension in his shoulders palpable even from a distance. "Kit, I...," he starts, his voice trailing off as he searches for the right words. The afternoon sun hangs high, making everything look bright and heated, yet there is a coolness to his words. "You ought to know how I feel about all this. It's like every day we're spinnin’ our wheels, gettin’ deeper in with no clear way out. And after... after what happened to you, I can't help but think maybe there's somethin' better than this life." He pauses, the lines of his face softening as he turns away again. “And here we are, doin’ what we always do.”

You nod. It is almost like you can’t escape it. As though this is as ingrained in you as the memories you’ve recovered. “Do you think we’d ever have a chance?” you ask softly. “At a normal life? If we really wanted it?”

Arthur's gaze shifts back to you, the blue of his eyes piercing and deep, like the vast ocean during a storm. He takes a step closer, his presence towering yet comforting as the distance between you lessens. "Kit, if there's one thing I've learned," he starts, his voice rough with the dust of the trail and the years of hardship, "it’s that a normal life ain’t just somethin’ you pick off a tree. But with you...yes, I think we might find somethin' close to it."

He reaches out to you as you sit on Odliv beside him, and his hand finds yours, calloused yet gentle, and for a moment, the turmoil of your situation fades under a sliver of hope.

“We need to help the gang see that.”

He nods. “We can try.”

And after another moment, you continue on.

You ride down the other side of the hill and as you navigate around large rocks and bushes, Arthur calls to you. “There’s somethin’ up ahead.”

You both pick up your speed and you notice it. A tall, wooden structure, and as you draw closer, you see that it is an oil derrick. But Cornwall’s operation is much larger than this.

Arthur has Montana come to a stop and he dismounts. “Let’s have a look.”

You might as well. You pat Odliv on the neck and dismount.

Arthur walks toward the oil derrick and puts a hand on one of the beams. “This don’t look too old…”

You take a look at the area. There are boxes and canned goods strung around everywhere. It reminds you of when you were looking for Trelawny.

Speaking of, where is he? Did he disappear when things in Rhodes went to hell?

“Kit…” Arthur interrupts your thoughts. “Come here…”

You look up and you see Arthur, crouched down and looking at something. The way he spoke, suggests he’s looking at something that isn’t good.

You find your way over to him, walking around a stack of crates to get to him. You walk on a wooden platform and you see a hole deep in the middle of the oil derrick.

But your eyes return to Arthur as he is hunched over a dead body.

Your breath catches and you come closer. You have seen death before, but what shocks you is to come across a dead body out in the middle of nowhere. You remember what that deputy in Rhodes did.

“Is there anything to tell us who he is?”

In his hand, Arthur has a piece of paper. He rises to a standing position and offers it to you. “Just this letter. His name is Varley.”

You take the letter from him and read it aloud. “It is very regrettable that you have rejected the various extremely generous purchase offers presented to you by Cornwall…” You lift your eyes to look at Arthur. “Leviticus Cornwall…”

Arthur points to the letter. “The letter implies that Mr. Varley refused to sell out to him. My guess is they didn’t like it that much.”

You look at the body of Mr. Varley, the state of the oil derrick, the scattered goods everywhere. This wasn’t an accident.

Arthur looks down at Mr. Varley, shaking his head. "They made a proper mess of him," he murmurs, his voice tinged with the kind of detached sorrow you've come to recognize. The kind that shows he's seen far too much, yet still finds the heart to care.

You fold the letter and offer it back to Arthur. “Keep this in your satchel. It’s important.”

He takes it from you, brushing his fingers with yours, and puts it in his satchel. “Think Bronte will find it interestin’?”

“I’d say knowing that a man you want to utilize isn’t afraid to kill those who cross him is pretty important.” You find your eyes going back to the body again and your heart sinks. “How long do you think he’s been dead?”

Arthur looks over at the body. “I’d say not that long. It was recent. Charles would have a better clue, maybe. Days.”

“Someone might be looking for him.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“How do you figure?”

“A man on his own like this would have risked or given up everythin’ to strike oil.” His lips flatten to a thin line. “If he had someone, he would have brought her with ‘em.”

You watch him closely as he speaks, and you have a feeling that there is a deeper meaning to his words, a vicarious feeling that he’s placing on this poor victim of lost dreams. “Maybe we should tell the sheriff in Valentine,” you suggest. “It’s not far.”

Arthur shakes his head. “He don’t care. Besides, someone would’ve come across his body before us.”

“Maybe.” You pause, letting something roam in your thoughts. “Maybe we should bury him.”

Arthur nods. “Would if I had a shovel. A shallow grave out here is only prey for coyotes.”

He’s right. You’d want to do it right, anyway. But you will need proof long after his body is gone. “I wish there was a way we could get a photograph.”

“What?”

“I feel like that letter won’t be enough, Arthur. Bronte could say that I just as easily made it up.”

Arthur looks back at you, speaking as candidly as he can. “Well, I have a camera.”

You blink and let a smirk play on your lips. “Well, aren’t you just full of surprises?”

Even in this dismal situation, Arthur looks down bashfully. “I’ve been takin’ photos of gunslingers.” He begins to pull the camera out of his satchel. What does he all keep in there? “‘Course, all of ‘em so far I’ve had to duel.”

“And they lost, I suppose?”

Arthur nods, positioning himself in front of the body to take a picture. “You’d be supposin’ right.”

And with a gentle click, your proof is captured in that little, black box. “I guess we keep going then?”

Arthur nods, his eyes not leaving the body as he puts the camera away. “Yeah.”

You reach and take his hand, and feel his fingers tighten around yours. You begin to back away from the site and feeling your pull, he follows. 

You walk back to your horses, mount up, and carry on. 

***

You and Arthur ride up on an incline that overlooks the valley into Cornwall Kerosine and Tar. The clank clank of the pump jacks is loud enough to make you want to turn around and head back. What a disruption of the beautiful land that makes up the Heartlands! 

“This is awful,” you say. “It’s worse than when I last passed through here.”

Arthur grumbles. “That’s Cornwall’s signature, alright.”

The land is dark, like tar, and you see men in the distance, walking around the building that stands as a memorial to the land that once was. You look over to Arthur and see he is using his binoculars, pointing them in the direction of the oil plant. 

“There are more guards, too,” he observes. 

You nod, chortling. “No doubt there are, especially after that stunt you and John pulled a couple of months ago.”

You see his smile as he moves the binoculars in a slow sweep. “That was one of our better ideas, even though the law showed up real quick.”

“Would I have gone with you? If I was my old self by then?”

He lowers the binoculars to look into your eyes. “I wouldn’t have wanted you to.”

You scoff. “Arthur—”

“I mean it. In fact, I don’t think you would have wanted to, either.”

You blink. “No?”

He shakes his head as he puts his binoculars away. “No.”

You feel your shoulders droop and exhale slowly as you look out over the Heartlands. “Arthur, I didn’t die, and I don’t intend to. I know you thought that I did, and I know that I’m not exactly who I used to be, but I’m here now.” You pause a minute to look into his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He’s quiet for a minute and without saying anything, he dismounts his horse. Your eyes follow his movements as he walks over to you, stopping on the left side of Odliv. He holds out his arms to you. “C’mere.”

You don’t know what he’s doing and you still sense the urgency to reach the oil plant. “Arthur—”

He motions for you to get down with a quick rotation of his wrists. “C’mon.”

You exhale and, leaning down, you support yourself on his shoulders. He takes you by the waist and helps you down. “What is going on…?”

Your voice trails off when he pulls you into his embrace, his arms pulling you in tight, your face sinking into his chest and you instinctively inhale his scent. You feel him bury his face in your hair and you hear his steady breaths as he holds you. 

“I’ve…” he begins, his voice muffled. “I’ve been holdin’ it back but I couldn’t wait no more.”

You can hear the weight in his words, causing a chain reaction of aches to well up inside you. “Hold it back?” you ask as you blink away unshed tears. “Why?”

“‘Cause you still don’t remember, though you love me, but I…I’m at a different place than you.” 

“I’m sorry for that.”

“I ain’t mad at you, Kit. I’m just…” He leans away from your body and you look up at him and you see something in his eyes. “You just have no idea what it was like…” His lip quivers and he pauses before speaking again. “To have to go on livin’…knowin'…” You feel his hand hold your chin, encouraging you to keep looking in his eyes. “There’s so much I wanna do…but even just to hug you when you’ve only just—” He exhales sharply, his lips forming a thin line. “I don’t wanna scare you.”

“A hug isn’t going to scare me, Arthur,” you say with a soft smile, your brown pinched in sympathy. Then your voice lowers. “A kiss won’t, either.”

“But if I kiss you…” He stops, swallowing thickly. “I don’t know if I can…” His hand that is on the small of your back begins to grip your jacket, the fabric bunching in his fingers. 

You’re finally beginning to understand him. This entire time it wasn’t about not having faith in you, or not trusting you. It was fear. Fear of losing you. To go through that pain another time, when he’s lost so much already. You bring up your hands to caress his face. “Kiss me, Arthur.” Then you caress his cheek. “It’s alright.”

You see the fear in his eyes. The restraint. You can only imagine it’s the pent-up ache and loneliness from losing you, finding out you’re alive, to learning you don’t remember the past two years of love and secrecy. You can only imagine what he must be feeling, the desire to hold you close and not let go. He can’t just ease into it. He’s all or nothing. 

His hand trembles as it holds your chin. 

“Go on,” you whisper, almost a little too eagerly. “Go on and let me love you.”

He nearly grimaces and he emits a cry, so low and soft that you’re almost taken by surprise. This is so much more than what you’ve made it out to be. Something deep within his being, on the edge of this stupid task you’ve set out on. He’s breaking apart, after holding himself together for so long. 

Your hands go to his neck and you bring him to you, letting him tuck his head in the crook of your neck. 

And he sobs. 

He begins to feel heavy in your embrace and goes to his knees, you bending over as your arms remain around him. His close proximity makes his hat push off his head and he clutches onto you tightly, suppressing his sobs and his groans as this ache finally comes to the surface. 

“I missed you…” he cries into your jacket. “I-I’ve…”

You press your cheek against the top of his head, smelling the crisp wind in his hair. “It’s alright.”

He chokes on his words, his hands gripping you like a vice. “I didn’t wanna…I couldn’t go on no more…!”

You say nothing, only holding him close. 

“I couldn’t—can’t take it!” he cries. “Oh god…!”

You finally go to the ground and he rolls into you, letting his weight be supported in your arms, letting himself be held for once. 

“Let me carry you, Arthur…” you whisper into his hair, planting a gentle kiss there. “Let it go…”

His grip only tightens, so tight that you feel like you could break in two, but you don’t care. There’s something in this moment, something fragile in the vulnerability, that you dare not threaten its catharsis. Arthur is raw, unfiltered, unadulterated as you hold him, finally releasing the grief he felt when he thought he lost you and the joy of seeing you again. 

This is what you saw that day in Valentine, a mere glimpse of it in his eyes when he had a hold of your wrist, what he wanted to express as he called your name. To have to hold it in as you tried and are still failing to figure all of this out, was pure torture and agony for him. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Arthur,” you say. 

“You better not…” he groans. “Don’t leave me, Kit.”

You adjust your arms, cupping his face in your hand as you pull away to look in his eyes. “Never.” And you kiss him deeply, instantly getting a response as his hands go to the sides of your head, pulling you into him. You roll as he falls backward, landing on his chest as you kiss him deeper. 

You can sense the urgency in his kiss, his mouth as you let him in, unlike the one you shared in the hotel room. You know now that he was holding back, even then. 

Such self-control. Such strength. 

Such love, for a man like him to want to protect you. 

His hand travels down to your back and he takes the lead, rolling you over and supporting your head in the crook of his other arm. When you touch his face, you can feel the tear streaks on his cheeks and you emit a soft moan in empathy. 

When you told him you loved him, in the hotel, you meant it, but you didn’t know how deep it ran. 

Until now. 

And suddenly, as you come to this reality, you feel the slow ebbing in the back of your head. A heaviness in your eyes. 

No…not now…!

You pull away from Arthur, your lips lingering long enough for him to nibble at your bottom lip. Then his face whitens as he realizes how heavy you are becoming in his arms. 

“Kit…?!” he breathes, worry leaving his lips as he tries to catch his breath. 

You try to speak, but the pain is too great. You grimace, close your eyes tightly, and reach for the sides of your head. 

“Is it another one?” he asks. “Kit? Tell me what to do…!”

It is too painful, swallowing you whole, you don’t want to go, you want to stay and bring him to you, to kiss him with hunger, but you want the pain to go away. 

So you surrender. 

***

“I’m going to get you…!” you playfully taunt as you chase Jack. Since learning to walk, he’s been keeping Abigail on her toes, and so you’ve been spending more time at camp to help her. You were worried that would upset Dutch and Hosea, but you’ve come to learn that they’d rather have laughter than cries and screams in camp.

And you’re good at making Jack laugh.

“No! No! No!” You know to disregard this, as Jack’s favorite word is no. Whether he’s eating his favorite treats or being chased around, it's always the same gleeful stubbornness. But today, his laughter fills the air like music, a sweet release from the tension that often knots at the edges of camp life.

You scoop him up, spinning around until you're both dizzy with laughter. He shrieks, delighted, and you blow raspberries on his little, round belly.

“Jsi stále rychlejší a rychlejší, brouček! Brzy tě nebudu moci chytit!”

Jack’s giggles continue as he tries to squirm from your grip. “No, Kit, no!”

“Yes, you have such fast little legs!”

You hear footfalls in the dirt come up behind you and so you begin to turn around. “Abigail, I think you must have given Jack some sort of tonic, because—”

But it isn’t Abigail, it’s Arthur.

He must have just returned from another job, it is evidenced from the dirt on his clothes and the cuts on his knuckles. But he’s smiling, so it must not have gone too bad.

Arthur's eyes soften considerably as they land on you, Jack still in your arms, his small body bubbling with unrestrained laughter. You feel a surge of warmth, despite the heavy layer of dust coating your own spirit from the week's weary tasks.

"Seems like Jack here's got the better of you, Kit," he says with a chuckle. “Who knew all it would take was a two-year-old rascal?”

You purse your lips and narrow your eyes as you try to conceal your smile, but the effort is fruitless; Arthur always had a way of teasing a smile out of you, even in the grimmest times.

"Maybe he's got the better of me," you concede, settling Jack in your arms. "but only because I let him."

Arthur steps closer, his gaze lingering on your face as he offers to take the boy. “Let’s bring him back to his mama,” he says softly and you pass the giggling Jack over to him. He holds him so expertly, and you know it is because of his experience with his own son, since he had told you of that tragedy when Jack was born. “I wanna talk to you.”

Your smile fades and your brow pinches. “Something wrong?”

He doesn’t answer, but begins to walk into camp. “Just wait here.”

You watch him stride away, Jack's laughter echoing through the camp, mixing with the crackling of fires and distant murmurs of other gang members. The late afternoon sun marks the day already half gone, but you feel like it has just begun. Your heart also beats a little faster, not knowing what to expect from Arthur's solemn tone.

Arthur returns without the boy and gestures to Boadicea, who is hitched to a tree nearby. “Care to ride with me?”

You tilt your head. “Just to talk?”

He shrugs, rolling his eyes. “Or we can walk.”

You look down at your bare feet, letting your toes dig into the soft South Dakota earth. “I don’t mind walking.”

Arthur nods, with a soft chuckle. “Imagine that.”

You look back up and swat him playfully. “Don’t make fun of me.”

Arthur grins, the lines by his eyes crinkling as he leads you away from the bustle of camp. The two of you walk side by side, your strides matching almost perfectly despite his being longer and more assured. Silence stretches between you like an old, familiar blanket, comforting enough until he finally breaks it.

"I found an abandoned house an hour’s ride from here,” Arthur says casually. “They left a money box behind.”

“Is that where you were?” you ask. “Where did you get the cuts on your hands?”

He offers a mischievous grin. “Someone got there first.”

And you mirror his expression. “I take it you were the one who got the box?”

He nods. “And a nice new watch.”

You laugh. Arthur has always been very straightforward, but you've noticed that when he manages to find humor in his adventures, it means he's in good spirits. It's a relief to see, especially after the tense weeks that have plagued the gang. Things seem to get hard before they get better. John has just returned after being gone a year, and while everyone else has welcomed him with open arms, Arthur has kept him at arm's length.

You understand why, but you have to keep it to yourself.

“So, I reckon we’ll have a bit more cash for supplies,” he continues, kicking a small stone along the dirt path. “Abigail can get some things for Jack.”

“It’s good that you look out for him.”

Arthur replies with a bitter tone. “Someone has to.”

He falls silent again, his gaze wandering to the horizon where the setting sun painted the sky a fiery orange. You watch him, noticing the way his jaw clenches and unclenches. The lines of worry seemed more pronounced today, and you wonder if there’s more he’s not saying.

“You ever think about leaving all this?” you ask. “I sometimes wonder how Abigail plans to raise Jack as long as she stays with us.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I ain’t got the right mind to leave.” He lowers his head. “Even when I have a reason.”

Your heart can’t help but sink at this. You know that he’s grieved the loss of his son these last four years. You tried to give him space, as you know only time can heal the ache. You should know, it still hurts sometimes when you think of Antek.

Arthur’s voice softens, a rare vulnerability seeping through the rough edges. “Kit, there ain’t a day goes by I don’t think about Isaac. But it’s this life that keeps me going, now — keeps me from thinking too much, y’know?”

You nod, understanding all too well the escape that constant movement can give. You both walk off the beaten path, further into the trees. You notice how the leaves above you look like stained glass windows, letting the light through the beautiful green. “I understand. Since being with the gang, my life has purpose again, and that has helped me with the loss of my brother.”

You continue silently for a little while, until suddenly, Arthur holds out his arm to stop you. “Shh…” he says as you are about to speak to him and you close your mouth. With a silent gesture, he points ahead of you towards a cluster of bushes. You focus your gaze, and suppress a gasp.

It is a doe and a fawn. They haven’t noticed you both, grazing peacefully on the tender shoots. Arthur’s hand tightens slightly on your arm, his eyes softening as he watches the creatures. It's a rare moment of tranquility in a life otherwise filled with chaos and danger.

“Reminds me of…” he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper as if afraid to admit anything out loud.

You then reach for his hand, and take it softly. His breath catches, which is loud enough to startle the doe and she and her baby take off deeper into the woods.

His eyes focus on his hand as it is clasped into yours and when he looks up at you, he is met with your smile. His hand tightens its grip. “You’ve always been there, Kit,” he says softly. “Even when I weren’t the most kind.”

You furrow your brow. “When were you ever rude to me?”

“Maybe I should have been more attentive to you…”

You sense a shift in the air between you and you study him curiously. “Arthur, are you alright?”

He nods his head, a smile growing on his lips. “Yeah, for the first time in a long while…” His gaze lingers on you a moment longer before he looks back where the doe disappeared. “I reckon I am." When he looks back at you, he brings your hand to his chest and holds it over his heart. You can feel the steady beat, quick and strong. “Kit, I ain’t a good man…”

You shake your head. “It isn’t for you to judge that.”

He continues. “Let me finish. I ain’t. I’ve done things I ain’t proud of, but…” He takes off his hat and holds it in his free hand. “I can’t go on knowin’ that I ain’t got a reason to fight anymore. Or, at least, if that reason don’t feel the same way…”

You blink. “Arthur…?”

“Kitka…I…I love you.”

The words hang in the air between you, thick and undeniable. Your heart pounds against your chest so fiercely you fear he might feel it through your hand still pressed against him. His confession, raw and uncertain, echoes the very fears and hopes tangled deep within your own spirit.

You swallow hard, the words you need to say arenot coming out as they should.

Arthur swallows thickly. “I can understand if you don’t feel the same way…I know things change over the years…It’s just that these past few months…I’ve started wonderin’ if I did any amount of good in my life to have another chance…to feel special to someone, and here you were, bein’ so kind and gentle to me as I’ve fought my own demons from my past.” Then a soft smile softly appears on his face and he looks down. “And how you’ve been with little Jack, it’s…it’s the nicest thing I’ve witnessed in a long spell.”

You feel a warmth spread through your body, reaching every cold corner left untouched from the years of living in the shadows, always ready to disappear at a moment's notice. Tears prick the corners of your eyes as you realize the weight of his words, the depth of his vulnerability. It’s just as special and rare as seeing that doe and her baby, a precious moment that you don’t want to ever disturb.

His eyes meet yours again and they search you for a moment. “Well, ain’t you gonna say somethin’?”

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, the world around you falls silent except for the steady beat of Arthur's heart under your palm. The words you've longed to say, the feelings you've buried deep within, now claw their way up, desperate for release. "Arthur," you begin, your voice trembling with emotion. “I’ve loved you. For the longest time, I’ve loved you. I just want you to be happy,” you sniff. “Always.”

You feel his heart beat even faster under your palm and he steps closer to you, closing the gap so that your bodies are pressed together. He takes your face in his hands, and you look up into his eyes. “It would make me happy if you’d be my woman.”

You giggle. “Your sweetheart?”

“My darlin’,” he says and he leans in to kiss your cheek softly. “My kitten…” And he kisses your other cheek.

Your cheeks feel hot but you let them burn. He’s never called you kitten before, but it fits. “And you’ll be my man?” You ask quietly, your voice still quivering with emotion. The look in his eyes is tender, filled with a warmth that ignites a spark of hope in your heart. “My strong hart?” And a tear falls down your cheek. “My king?”

“Always,” Arthur replies, his voice low and sincere. He draws you closer into his embrace, the familiar scent of leather and earth enveloping you, and you lean into it. “If you’ll let me.”

You think about the atmosphere in camp, and the danger of the life you lead. If others were to know, what could this mean for Arthur, the gang’s enforcer?

You gently push him back and when your eyes meet he looks at you with curiosity. “What’s wrong?”

“What if the others know?”

He goes quiet for a moment before speaking. “Do you want them to know?”

You think about it then shake your head. “No.”

He relaxes his shoulders and then takes hold of your waist. “It might be a little challenging to keep it a secret,” he says, with almost a flirtatious air.

And you respond in kind, “But secrecy is one of my many talents.” And you wrap your arms around his neck, bringing your faces close together. You can feel his soft breath on your face, on your mouth.

Arthur chuckles, the sound deep and reassuring. "That's true enough, Kitka. I've seen you disappear into thin air more times than I can count." His fingers trace along your waist to your back, a touch so gentle it could be the breeze itself. “Just as long as you don’t go disappearin’ on me.” He then holds you tighter, his hands traveling down to your backside, making your breath catch.

Settling in the feeling of his hands, you bite your lower lip. “You can always track me down, can’t you?”

Arthur’s laugh rumbles softly in his chest, and the sound stirs a curious blend of comfort and excitement within you. “That I can, Kit. You leave a mark deeper than you reckon.” His gaze lingers on you with a mix of admiration and earnestness that makes your heart flutter uncontrollably.

“What kind of mark are we talking?” you tease.

At your words, you see his eyes migrate to your lips. “I can think of a good one…”

And leaning in the rest of the way, he closes the gap between your lips, kissing you gingerly. You can tell he’s being deliberate, this being your first real kiss now that he’s reciprocating your feelings and as he pulls away, you quickly bring him back. Arthur laughs from his throat and his response is immediate, deepening the kiss with a passion that has been simmering under the surface, restrained by fears and doubts only whispered to the wind. His hands grip you more firmly, bringing an intensity that makes your pulse quicken, your heart pounding against your rib cage as if trying to break free.

But you are already flying.

And you doubt you will ever come down.

Thank you for reading!

Tag Requests:

@photo1030 @eternalsams

[red-doll-face]

Getting caught in the rain with Arthur leads to him finding creative ways to warm you up.

(high honor) arthur morgan x fem. reader

I love this trope! prob been done before but I cant resist... 😔Can you believe I wanted this to be a short head canon post?? LMAO it ended up way longer than that. That's why it has a more casual thing going on despite being super long 🥲Happy thanksgiving! This is for the girlies who are stuck with family and need something absolutely filthy to read !!! 💕💕💕💕💕

Warnings: NSFW content, vaginal sex, while honor isn't too relevant, arthur is very sweet and hes kind of a weenie here, in a good way! arthur does not have bad intentions here, he's genuinely a sweet little man...

-

Thinking of begging Arthur to take you away from camp for a while. Maybe you haven't had a bath in a bit or you're sick of hearing Swanson drunkenly parade around camp. But you've decided to ask Arthur, he's always so sweet to you and you know he won't say no. And Arthur and his stupid bleeding heart (the one that bleeds so much more for you) grumbles and pretends he's thinking about it but really he'd probably say yes to anything that came from your lips. He has no regrets when he sees the smile you give him. You're hoisted up onto the back of his horse, holding onto his waist so you don't fall. Arthur is desperately trying to play it cool. 

Then the rain starts coming down, you're soaked through very quickly and Arthur, such a gentleman, sheds his coat to give it to you, except now he is soaked through as well. The both of you are freezing and he tells you that you have to stop until the weather clears. He’s cussing up a storm worse than the one you're in. You nod, just wanting to be warm, wracked by shivers. He comes up on an abandoned shack and guides you inside, shutting the rain out. You're standing in the center of the room, looking like a wet cat after a miserable bath, Arthur is kind enough to take his coat off of you, giving you a ratty old, moth bitten blanket but it doesn't do much of anything for the cold. Trying to get a fire going proves fruitful but it's a small one and the wind blowing in from the flue almost puts it out several times.

Arthur feels so helpless, sitting there watching your teeth start to chatter as you sit in front of the pathetic little fire. He's trying to apologize (Ah, I’m sorry, I didn't know it was gonna come down like that,) but you only tell him it's not his fault. He has to help, all he wants to do is help. Things aren't getting any better and he doesn't want you to come down with something on account of him being an idiot. And then he gets an idea. He’s red all over flushed at the thought but he knows taking your soaking clothes off would help. And he's standing there, awkwardly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck while he tries to hide under his hat. He’s gently clearing his throat, trying to get your attention. 

“Maybe we could try… I…could…” he's nervously stumbling through his words and he's looking at you, sitting on the floor, desperately trying to warm your hands by the fire. You look up to him but he can hardly speak, so enraptured by the look of utter trust, reliance on him. His mouth hangs open but he swallows the lump of spit in his mouth. He tries to shake off these boyish jitters he gets around you. “Uhhh- I mean, it would be better if we weren't sittin’ round in these clothes, I guess, can’t be doin’ you any good...”  

“Really, you think so…?” Your voice is quiet and meek, struggling to say anything past the clicking of your teeth and the shivers. “Well then, turn around, Arthur,” at your obvious attempt to be modest, he nods stiffly and turns towards the wall, listening to you take your dress and your underskirts off, landing in a wet plop on the floor. You whine, peeling yourself out of your undergarments before a quiet ok leaves your lips. He turns and you're desperately covering yourself with that dusty blanket, legs bare, fabric hardly long enough to cover the soft mound between your legs, the fat of your inner thighs squished together. Arthur has a hard time keeping his gaze from locking onto any of the inviting bits of skin you show him. You're embarrassed, biting your lip, squeezing your arms around yourself. 

“Aren't you gonna- Arthur, you're gonna do it too, right?” Arthur has a hesitant nod and a course even though he just now thought he should probably follow along to help make you more comfortable. He’s removing his hat first, nothing to hide under now and he notices that you watch him take his gun belt off, unfastening his suspenders from his pants. You finally look away, his boots and his pants are peeled off and his shirt is unbuttoned. He’s breathing heavily now, naked as the day he was born. But you won't stop shivering. Your hair is still wet. And the fire is struggling to warm you from the bitter cold that clings to the dusty air. There isn't much left to burn for the fire. 

“You want me to hold you?” It's out of his mouth before he can stop it, trying to smack away these thoughts about the glimpses he’s getting of your naked figure underneath the blanket. He swears it's only out of necessity, that you're just not warming up fast enough. “Don’t want you gettin’ sick on me,” He really does only want you comfortable. Unrealistically hoping this won't change what you most likely consider a friendship. You nod, vigorously. 

“I think it would be ok, maybe if you just didn’t- didn’t look. Just- don’t look,” and you're desperate, curling up in his lap in front of the wavering fire. You're unable to look at him, but you still rub into him, enjoying how his body warms up a lot faster than yours. And both of you make some excuse that things would be better without that old blanket between you two. And suddenly you're pressed into him, his arms tight around you while he looks at the ceiling to avoid staring at things he shouldn't. Arthur struggles hard to keep from rubbing upwards into you, trying to keep you from sitting directly between his legs, afraid the way his body reacts to the feel of your body will scare you, scandalize you. But you only seem to want to be there more, getting comfortable with him. His chest hair tickles you, the hair creeps all the way down his torso. You giggle softly as it tickles you. His heart beats fast at the feel of you, so soft compared to the roughness of him.

As if all of the blood hasn't already rushed down to the very center of him, you just have to sit squarely on his lap. He tries to readjust you but it's too late and you've felt him, hard as a rock, pushing at you. He's so embarrassed, stumbling over an apology, “Shit-I-I’m sorry, I-” in that surly voice, all rough and low. you gasp and look over your shoulder. You see how he can hardly stand to look at you with his pretty blue gem-toned eyes. Instead he shows you his profile as he turns away. 

“It's ok”, Arthur has no idea how he's supposed to look at you after this, he can't see himself looking you in the eyes for a long while after you've felt his cock nudging the swell of your ass, unable to deny his own reaction to you. Hopefully he’ll be able to dismiss it as a fluke and not a devastating hope that you’d be interested in him that he's been crushing down for months now. He's trying to will away the burgeoning desire just under his skin, tamping down fires that rage on. And you look up at him again with that look of trust in your eyes, too ashamed to continue touching you, wholeheartedly convinced you don't like him. 

But then you're only closer than you were, looking up at him, so close, he's breathing in your scent, sweet and like fresh summer rain. His eyes search yours for any inclination and all you have to do is put your hand on his prickly cheek for him to lean and kiss you, hands on his broad chest, rushing over the warmth you can feel. How he ends up with you on his lap, tits pressed up against his hairy chest, his big hands squeezing at your hips, he's not too sure. Your arms are over his shoulders, playing with his light brown hair sweetly, rubbing the sore muscles in his back. And the glide of his tongue over yours is heaven, he swears. You whine into his kisses, the heat between the both of you licks over your skin, noses clumsily bumping into each other. 

Then he’s on top of you, tucking you over the blanket. “You gotta tell me you want this, want me,” and all you can do is say “Yes, please, Arthur, please,” features showing your ecstasy, anticipating his hands on you.

His hands are rough; petting down your sides. Any worries he had about being too old, too ugly and too brutish for you are forgotten when you kiss him, spread your legs for him to fit between them. When you push your breasts in his hands when he goes to touch them. Your nipples are hard from the cold but his hands start to warm them up when he gropes at them, squeezing languidly at your breasts, grabbing handfuls.

It's not long before he’s pinning your thighs up with his hands, spreading you and licking eagerly between your legs, so selfless. Letting you moan as loud as you like, telling you how good you taste, the roughened pads of his fingers circling at the sensitive button at the top of your slit. And he's so strong, doesn't put much effort into keeping your legs up. He has dulcet praises for you, “Such a pretty girl, darlin’, jus’ beautiful,” making you soften and ease.

He’s so warm, holding you, like you wanted him to, messy kisses that taste like you. The very tip of him catches on you, dipping softly between your folds. Your nails dig into him, thighs clench tight. He's sweet talking to you, shushing you, rubbing hard at the delicate little nub, getting you as wet as possible. Saying how good you look. How he must be dreaming. That’s my girl is what he says when you soak his fingers with your own arousal, heat rising to the apples of your cheeks. Even more when he's working his cock inside of you, panting, he seems overwhelmed, mumbling and groaning praises to you, his sweet girl, perfect in that slow easy voice of his. You feel him carefully easing you open, hissing at the feel of you wrapped tight on him and leaking down his shaft. You can't say much but his name, begging him not to stop, feeling his fingers almost bruise the tender softness of your hips. 

Arthur pushes so deep, a growl of pleasure leaking from his lips. You didn't think he would feel so big. Telling him how big he is and feels; “You're so big, Arthur,” in a wispy moan, makes him groan. He just wants to hear how much you like him. The rhythm he was trying to keep slow and careful speeds up. And he doesn't last very long, poor thing. It's been a while for him and he's flushed bright red, embarrassed and feeling a tad emasculated. The disappointed son of a bitch he lets out has you petting his hair back tenderly.

But all you have to do is give him a minute, kiss and nip gently, lock your legs around him so he can't pull away, until he's pushing his own seed deeper, mindlessly pinning you under his weight. He loves feeling so close to you, so small underneath him. 

The way you feel clenching down on him, moaning for him, begging him to keep going has him rutting into you, following his instincts, brain feeling like it's melting. He's harder than he has ever been, listening to the sound of your wetness slide on him, the mess he’s left between your thighs sounding dirty and sticky. You don't have to tell him to keep rubbing you, grinding your hips into his so he can press into the perfect spot. 

His thumb is rubbing at the very center of you, that tender bud, so sensitive, has you pushed to the edge and falling over, legs locking up behind him, bucking and moaning much too loud. You sink your fingers into the layer of fat over his broad muscles, arching your back, feeling so complete. Seeing you so relaxed, feeling so good because of him makes him push as deep as he can, making your toes curl, forcing more of his cum even deeper, a sloppy wet mess that drips out of you when he pulls out. But he revels in those few moments where he's catching his breath, still so deep inside of you, feeling you pulse on him. 

Arthur can’t not hold you afterwards, unsure what to say. He thinks it might be too soon for I love you, maybe you’ll be scared away by his raw sentiments and his lovesick words. But you stare into his eyes; his heart jumps when he blurts it out in the silence, too late to shut his damn mouth. But you only smile and say you love him too. You're the farthest thing from cold, tucked into his chest, not even noticing that the rain has stopped.

Thank you for reading! SO sorry this ended up being so long. Excited to write more for high honor arthur, this was more fun than i thought... I love him 😔😳

[arthurmorganswh0re]

A Final Goodbye

about: arthur writes you one last letter tags: angst, mentions of death, illness, regrets an: another angsty lil piece i put together, i thought about what arthurs last words would be to his lover if he had to say goodbye

My girl,

Don't know what good writing this'll do, ain't like I expect you to read it. Ain't like I even have the courage to send it. But the words are sitting heavy in me, and I can't carry em no more. Maybe you'll find it someday, maybe you won't. Either way, it's yours.

I've been thinking about you more and more. Reckon that ain't too surprising. Dutch's hold on me don't compare to yours, yet I let you slip through my fingers like the damn fool I am. I haven't slept proper since the day you left, and maybe that's a sign of the regret I have. I miss you somethin' awful.

I think know you were right, about everything. About Dutch, about the gang. About me not being brave enough to let go of everything for my own sake. I wish I had listened to you, left when you told me to leave, maybe I wouldn't be dyin' like I am now.

I think back on the times we had, me and you, and I can only wonder what life would've been like if I had gone with you the day you left. I ain't mad, no, I could never hold it against you. You gave me something beautiful for as long as you could. It's my biggest regret, lettin' you go. I think it's what I deserve, truthfully. For all the blood on my hands. I always told you I wasn't a good man, but you believed I could be. Maybe we were both fools for that.

Death will come for me soon, and I'm scared. I don't think I've ever admitted that to anyone, not even a piece of paper. But I am. And I'll die wishin' I could see you again. As much as I want to be selfish, I know I ain't no good for you and that it's best if we stay our separate ways. I was never nothin' good to look at, but now I'm worse, and I'd hate for you to see me rottin'. I ain't a pretty sight.

I miss the way things used to be and I still live in them memories, they make all of this mess easier to put up with. I have to fight the urge to find you, know you're okay, even if it's in the arms of someone else, someone better than me. I hate even the thought, but it's what someone as good as you deserves.

Goddamn I miss you.

Forever yours,

Arthur M.

[devnmon]

Red Dead Redemption 2 masterlist

Arthur Morgan

too sweet.

fluff | word count: 632

Summary: You're too sweet for Arthur Morgan.

Sheriff’s Deputy Morgan

smut word count: 3.2k

Summary: Arthur comes back to camp one day with a shiny new badge on his chest, and you can't take him seriously. Though you tease him constantly, he gets particularly fed up and finally puts you in your place.

sfw/nsfw dating honey boy arthur morgan hcs

John Marston

sfw/nsfw dating golden boy marston hcs

Sadie Adler

sfw/nsfw dating sadie adler hcs

by the lantern light.

smut | word count: 4.4k

Summary: Pining for your bounty partner is manageable most times, but it becomes extremely difficult when the hotel screws up your room choice and you're forced to share a bed.

Dutch Van Der Linde

sfw/nsfw dating dutch van der linde hcs

Reason on the Common Tongue (of you lovin’ me)

smut | word count: 5.8k

Summary: You’ve taken another man in camp out for drinks while Dutch was busy and unwilling to take the night off. Who’s to say he’s forgotten where you’d gone by the time you return?

[johnpriceslamb]

— 𝓕𝓔𝓑𝓡𝓤𝓐𝓡𝓨

Soft murmurings of gossip rises within the Van Der Linde gang about the close relationship of the enforcer and the ex-noble.

𝓑𝓔𝓕𝓞𝓡𝓔 𝓨𝓞𝓤 𝓟𝓡𝓞𝓒𝓔𝓔𝓓 : age gap . fem ! reader . afab ! reader . hyper feminine ! reader . reader is mentioned to be physically smaller than chars mentioned in story . reader is in early 20’s . arthur is in late 20’s - early 30’s . crybbie reader snifle . traditional gender stereotypes heavily mentioned . tis short chapter ^_____^

The sun casts is warm rays across the expanse of the campsite, shrouding the trees in a soft glow. The soft murmurs of the people amongst the camp blends with the rustling of leaves and a gentle breeze carries the scent of a strange concoction of multiple animal meat and vegetables boiled down into a stew.

It’s been a week since you’ve stayed with the Van Der Linde gang.

You heave a bucket load of laundry onto the curve of your hip before sauntering to the place with a thick line roped around two trees which conveniently is placed where sun shines the most. The luxury you experienced back in ‘Denis was something you wish you never missed but the ultimate reality comes to clunk you gently on the head. Never hardly, because you couldn’t ever do harsh. The epitome of softness, you are.

Your feet ache from the weeks load of walking and helping with chores but alas, you could not just sit down and sniffle about your incident involving the man who lead the carriage to Chicago. You ponder at the thought if your father was still waiting for you, almost bouncing on his feet once he tells the boy he found as a partner for you to get on his knee and serve that dainty little ring on your left hand.

You tighten your grip on the wet fabric your hands enclosed on before spreading out the clothing on the line and clipped the ends with it with two half-broken pegs.

You’d rather be cooped up in a gang filled with outlaws than be married off to a man who could not even wash himself properly. You remember begging Dutch a day ago or so on your knees, dirtying your sweet little dress in the process, hands clasped together tightly as you cried out for him to let you stay.

He had a soft spot for pretty girls, and an even more softer spot for girls who keened at him like a needy puppy.

His warm hand combs through your hair as you sniffled upon his lap, beady eyes coming to stare at him through glossy tears. Your long lashes fluttered at the slight irritation, and the leader of the gang watches those fat globes of tears run down your cherub-like cheek.

From then on, you’ve received the embarrassingly sweet title of ‘Princess’. Suited for you. A pretty noble. Spoiled.

You knew life which held privilege unlike most of the camp members here. You pitied the people who told stories about their experiences of living around the campfire, noting yourself to bring a handkerchief for the next campfire session. A sense of envy was evident around the girls you slept next to, understandably so. However, they loved you like a sister, teasingly taunting you with your sweetest nickname as you giggle shyly at their prodding.

You shake your head lightly, lower lip lightly poking out at your distracting thoughts before finishing up with the laundry.

A soft crunch of leaves under a pair of boots, matched with a soft jingle of spurs to pair up with the evident way the loyal enforcer of the gang creeps up to you with a lazy stance. Your smile is light as you turn yourself to face him.

“Hey, princess.” Him too? Thats… Great.

Your cheeks feel warm at that silly title, “Good morning, Arthur.”

He takes the empty basket from you and you feel your heart soften just a bit at his kind gesture. Each time you look at him, you feel a slight spark between you both.

“Grimshaw been keepin’ you busy?” He looks at the long line of clothes, before that slightly boyish grin etches on his mature face.

You sigh, fiddling with your delicate cuffs, “Undeniably so. The soles of my feet ache from the amount of chores I do.” Now you understand why the maids from your manor would lightly stretch their legs before working around the interior.

He looks at you with concern, “Y’alright? Y’need anythin’?”

You shake your head politely, walking beside him slowly. “No, but thank you for your service.”

He looks down at your petite figure. You barely reached his shoulder, “Hm. If y’need anythin’, just call f’ me.” A hand comes to gently guide the small part of your back to avoid any sticks or sharp edges on the forest grounds.

“I.. I appreciate your kindness a lot.”

And he looks at you again. A shy smile.

“Any time.”

You walk with him across camp to place the basket with the other woven stacked baskets. Then, he turns towards you with a sheepish expression.

“‘M uh, ‘m gonna be ridin’ with the guys in a few minutes. I’ll be goin’ to town..” He clears his throat, “Anythin’ you want me to get f’ you?” His eyes dart to the simple little necklace you wore. He looks at your face again quickly.

You feel your cheeks becoming warm again, before shyly looking around, “Oh! Um.. I-.. Please, don’t waste your money on me.”

“It ain’t wastin’ if its ‘bout you.” He states.

“Are you sure?”

“Mhm.”

You ponder. Perhaps a proper needle and thread to sow that stubborn little hole which keeps falling apart no matter the needle you used. It’s that damn thread you have to work with, which is probably older than Hosea himself.

“If you could just buy a small amount of thread for me, that would be lovely. If you can’t find any, I don’t mind at all.”

“Right got it. Jus’ some thread? Don—”

The bellowing voice of that lanky late teen whom you remembered his name was John comes huffing out. Wheat between his mouth, and a furrowed look on his scruffy long face, “Arthur! Stop talkin’ to your girlfriend ‘n come on! We’re all waitin’ for you.”

“Pipe down, Marston. Gimme a sec,” Arthur grumbles lowly, before his hands come to hold onto his heavy belt around his waist. You almost hiss at the sound of that new title coming out of his mouth, feeling your insides burning up from fluster.

“A-Alright. I’ll see you then?” He asks, almost shyly.

You wave at him as he backs up to leave, “Bye, please travel safely.”

He nods his head before sauntering off. You watch him saddle up on that beautiful mare of his that he proudly called Boadicea and rode off with the rest of the men to rob.. Or something. You’re not really sure what they do, turning a blind eye and kept on with the chores among the campsite.

A slight nudge is felt by your side, you yelped at the sudden appearances of the other girls when you turned your head around. Karen stands beside you with a slight smirk.

“What in the world was that?” Tilly pipes up, looking at you with a smile adorning her delicate features.

You look around and peer at a tree, glancing at the ground to see multiple footprints. With that in mind, you realised the three girls were all stalking you and Arthur’s conversation.

Stammering, you pat your hands down your dress and cross your arms in front of your chest, swaying side to side and looking away to avoid eye contact with any of them. They giggle at the fact that your cheeks turn into a darker colour, “I— What do you mean?”

“Bye, please travel safely~” Karen mimics you, her pitch much higher than before with a slight drawl of poshness added to it to make you even more flustered.

“Thats not funny!” You hiss at them, before they all erupt with laughter you’ve never been acquainted to. Warm, sweet, and most importantly..

Comforting.

Your nimble hands fiddle with the ends of your frilled-tipped dress. A week since you’ve been gone from home, and won’t return until then. A week. You’ve used up all of your delicate fabrics, picky about wearing the same clothing everyday. They may call you prissy and overly prim for it, but you would quite literally rather die than be cooped up in clothes which stick to your skin from sweat and body odour from not showering nor changing.

Thus, the frequent fussing of your laundry. You’ve ought to buy another dress or so with the pocket money you stored in one of the thin pockets of your dress. Until then, you’ll have to deal with the feeling of your palms becoming more wrinkly from the many times you’ve dipped it in water.

Your thoughts are disrupted when Marybeth sits quite close to you, a shy demeanour etched within her figure. Sheepish, almost.

“Hi, princess.” She greets you with a light smile.

You smile back, feeling comfortable around the woman. She shared similar thoughts with you upon any topic you sigh about, and the same adoration for romance novels.

“Hello, Marybeth. Can I help you with anything?” You greet back, delicate hands placed on your lap.

She lightens up immediately, softly stumbling on her words, “Oh! R-right, I was just wonderin’.. well.. er,”

“—Lemme start from the beginning.” She searches for something behind her, which was stored with the other girls stuff. She grabs a book, flipping to a few pages before showing you an illustrated picture of what seemed to be the main character in the novel she held onto.

“‘S called.. Lorna Doone by RD Blackmore! A story between two star-crossed lovers.. That woman,” She points to the picture with her thin finger, “Shes the love interest of this man here,” She flips to a page of the illustration of the man.

“The man’s father was a farmer who got murdered by this clan called the Doones. Actually, if I recall.. The Doones were actually nobles but turned to outlaws. ‘N guess what? He falls in love with her, who turns out to be in this clan!” She explains with excitement, holding the novel close to her chest with a dreamy sigh.

You flutter your precious lashes a few times, before giggling lightly at her enthusiasm, unconsciously telling her to keep going with her ramblings with a light nod.

She then adds, “Right, look.. I know this is a bit silly of me to ask but..” She shyly looks at you with an upturned smile, “Could y’ maybe.. put a bit of makeup on my face? Y’know, to match with her looks?” She gestures to the illustration of Lorna drawn onto the page.

“I reaaaally admire her, ‘n’.. You get the jist right?”

You light up. Of course, shes seen you put a light bit of makeup on your face sometimes just to feel a bit prettier and pass time. In fact, you were wearing a little bit right now!

“Hmm..” You look at the picture, before glancing back at her.

“I can do that.”

“Oh!” She cheers, pulling you into a tight hug, “Thank you, princess. You’re the best!”

You giggle again at her soft squeals, before hugging the girl back with the same intensity. You saunter away for a bit to grab your small pouch of makeup products. Once you come back, you perch yourself on your knees in front of her form and politely asks her to close her eyes.

She does so immediately, watching her lashes flutter down and meet her cheeks.

You grab your small tin of home-made cream, screwing the lid off and using your finger nail to whip a dollop and gently place it on her freckle-kissed skin with a sweet hum. Your fingers rub into her face until the cream disappears and forms a very thin barrier of blurring any pores on her face.

You peer at the illustration again for a bit. It wasn’t difficult to replicate. Lorna’s lips were so prettily placed with a red stained lipstick, and her cheeks blossom touched with blush.

Your fingers clasp onto another small container, this time filled with powder grounded from rice. You’ve heard that some cosmetic manufacturing stores sold powders with arsenic and lead which drastically reduced safety in women’s skin, but in a magazine you’ve read, some women used grounded up rice powder to hide any blemishes on their skin.

With the lightest dip of a cushion, you apply the fine-rice powder onto her skin.

She hums at the smell, peaking at your nimble hand which was encased with a little cushion, “Smells kinda nice.”

“Hm.. Kinda does,” You mumble in response, lightly smiling at her pretty complexion. Finally, you reach for a thin bottle of lipstick, rubbing the tip first to get rid of the previous use you had for it and applying it with another finger, before gently dapping it on her thin lips.

Finally, you move on to the final step. Blush!

Grabbing your last makeup product from your little pouch, you use the same cushion you used for your powder, but on the other side. You dip it into the pink substance before applying it on the apples of her cheeks.

Once you were finished and packed your supplies back into your little bag, you excitedly show her face with your little floral emblemed pocket mirror, “Tada!”

She fawns over herself, lightly touching her skin. Your little tinkering and handiworks has made her feelings for her beauty burst into stars of light.

“Not much of a difference, but I applied a bit more blush on your cheeks to emphasise it. At the end of the day, y’can just wash your face with some warm water ‘n’ a bar of clean soap.” You mention, before she nods.

“Thank you, princess! Why, I ought to show the other girls!” She happily smiles, before hitching her magenta skirt lightly and tittering off to find the other ladies her new look. Her excitement bounces off the lonesome camp, but it feels like it’s bustling with energy from the other women around. A much different place when the men were gone.

“Well I’ll be,” That southern drawl catches your attention as the man you were closest to amongst this group approaches from behind. You turn, smile drawn onto your demure features as you stand up from your spot and saunter closer.

“Looks like you ‘n Marybeth were having a good time.” He crosses his arms and relies on the soles of his feet to keep him standing, peering at you.

“When did you arrive?” You question, sizing him up and down a few times to see if he sustained any injuries.

“Just a few moments ago.” You didn’t even hear the sounds of Boadicea’s footsteps clacking on the rough grounds. Just how skilled was he when it came to horseback?

Then, he reaches to his pocket and grabs the thread you asked for. You lightly gasp and profusely thanked him.

Your hands enclasped around his and picked the string from his palm.

His heart flutters lightly at the quick touch, breath hitching in his chest as he takes a step back.

“I can finally sow that little pest of a hole in my dress now! Thank you, Arthur. I really appreciate it.”

He grunts, clearing his throat before looking away. “‘S all good.”

You place it in one of your pockets, “How can I repay you?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” He gently chimes, the rim of his hat tipped lightly down. You puff your cheeks at his nonchalantness, trying to poke and prod at him to waver a bit on repaying him. But of course, he stood firm on his decision and doesn’t budge.

“..Please?” Cue your big beady eyes staring up at him.

“M-m.”

“…Why not.”

“Cuz it don’t matter. ‘S just string.”

“But.. it must’ve been a bit expensive.”

“Princess. ‘S string.”

“Please.”

“Nope.”

“Arthur!” You whine lightly.

“Princess.” He hums in response, before placing his hand on your waist and guiding you to where food is served in a large pot.

“C’mon, lets eat.” Somehow, you forget everything he’s said because of how gently he treated you.

From the other side of camp…

Tilly, Marybeth with her newly applied makeup- smudged a bit from unconsciously itching her face, and a Karen watches the two. Javier— curiously grouping with them.

“…Chicas, what are we staring at?”

“Shhh. We’re lookin’ at plot development.”

[girl-celestial]

The Governess

PART I OF III

ARTHUR MORGAN X FEMALE READER, eventual smut. 2k+ words. mdni

The Braithwaites hired a quiet little governess. Arthur wasn’t meant to notice her, but he did. Now every trip to the manor pulls him in deeper, past duty and reason, toward something he knows he can’t have.

THE horse’s hooves thudded low and heavy against the damp dirt path, muffled by Spanish moss and morning mist. Arthur adjusted his hat against the sun rising lazy over the swamplands, the air thick with the smell of wet earth and something sweeter—magnolia, maybe. Or rot. It was the kind of smell that lingered.

The Braithwaite place loomed in the distance, its white columns catching the light. Grand, in the way old money always was—too proud to die, too mean to fade. Arthur had been sent to talk, or threaten, or flatter. Dutch hadn’t exactly said which. And maybe it didn’t matter. Talking down here was always just a slower way of aiming a gun.

He rolled a cigarette with one hand as he rode, eyes scanning the tree line, senses prickling despite the stillness. Gang business, sure, but down here, everything felt like it could turn to blood real quick. He was only meant to ride in, say what Dutch needed said, and get out before the swamp air stuck to his lungs. Arthur had never liked the Braithwaite place—too quiet, too proud, too wrapped up in old money and the ghosts it bred.

But as his horse clopped down the gravel path toward the manor, something off to the side pulled his attention.

You.

You weren’t dressed like them—none of the silk or shine the Braithwaite women liked to hide behind. Just a soft-colored dress, worn at the edges, clinging a little from the morning damp. Your hair wasn’t fussed over either, half-pinned and tugged loose by the breeze. But somehow, that made you stand out more. You were real. You breathed like the rest of the world.

You were with the children, standing apart from them but watching with a distant kind of care. Not a mother, not a servant. Something in between. There was something calm in your posture, practiced, like you'd learned long ago how to go unnoticed. Arthur didn’t know who you were, but he could already tell you didn’t belong here any more than he did.

A strange kind of curiosity flickered in his chest. Not the usual kind he had for a stranger. This was quieter. Like something about you was already pulling on a part of him he didn’t let many people touch.

You looked up and saw him.

Your heart gave the smallest flutter when your eyes met his. You hadn’t even realized someone was approaching, not until the shift in the wind seemed to announce him. He didn’t look like a man from the manor either—worn coat, rough hands, that slow, steady weight in his gaze. You didn’t know who he was, but the way he looked at you made the world go quiet for just a second.

He tipped his hat, and for reasons you couldn’t explain, you smiled.

Not wide—just a small, careful curve of your lips. A little polite. A little uncertain. A little curious. You didn’t smile much around here. Certainly not to strangers. But something about him didn’t feel dangerous. Or maybe it did, but not to you.

And then he rode on.

You turned back to the children, but your thoughts didn’t quite follow. Not right away.

—

Arthur didn’t care for the way the man spoke—all slow words and sugar-coating around threats. It was the kind of voice that made you feel like something was crawling up your spine. The Braithwaites were always dressed in civility, but you didn’t have to dig far to find the rot. Moonshine was the word that kept coming up—moving it, protecting it, selling it where it didn’t belong. Dutch wanted in. The Braithwaites wanted leverage. Arthur wanted out of the house.

And maybe—though he wouldn’t say it aloud—he wanted to see you again.

The meeting dragged on. Arthur didn’t sit. He barely spoke. Just listened and nodded where needed, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room like he was counting exits. Eventually, the cousin poured himself another drink and waved toward the hallway. “We’ll send word when we’ve decided. I’m sure Dutch is used to waiting.”

Arthur tipped his hat without smiling. “He ain’t.”

As he stepped out into the hallway, the air shifted.

He heard your voice before he saw you—soft, low, just outside the parlor door. Not sweet in that practiced way rich women spoke, but steady. Real. Like you didn’t have to try to be kind.

Then you stepped into view, half-bent as you guided one of the children forward by the shoulder, murmuring something about wiping their face before they bothered Miss Catherine. You looked up, and there he was—standing in the hallway like he'd been waiting for something, even if he didn’t know what.

Your breath caught.

His presence filled the space in that quiet, undeniable way. He didn’t speak right away—just met your eyes and gave you a look that felt different this time. Like he recognized you now. Like he saw something in you that went deeper than before.

And you felt it too.

You’d only caught a glimpse of him before, just long enough to wonder. But now, standing this close, you saw the rough hands, the tired eyes, the way his gaze softened for a fraction of a second when it settled on you.

"Ma'am," he said, quiet.

You swallowed. "You're not one of them."

It slipped out before you meant it to. And for a second, you were sure you’d overstepped—that he'd frown or walk away or remind you where you stood in this house.

But Arthur just huffed a breath through his nose—something like a laugh. He looked past you for a second, then back again, meeting your eyes in that steady way that had already stayed with you longer than it should have.

"Neither are you."

The words hit softer than you expected—not an accusation, not a question. Just fact.

Your breath caught again, held for a moment you didn’t know how to name. He saw it in you. That edge, that loneliness. The way you lived here without ever quite being part of it.

“No,” you said. “I’m not.”

Your voice was calm, but there was something under it—a quiet confession neither of you needed to name.

Arthur looked past you for a beat, then back again. "Didn't think so. You don’t wear the place like they do."

You gave a small smile. “Meaning what?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “You ain’t dressed up in diamonds and spite.”

That pulled a quiet laugh out of you. The first real one in days. "Well. I do my best."

His mouth curved just slightly, like he was letting himself enjoy the sound. You hesitated, glancing down the hall where the children had gone. You should’ve followed. But you stayed.

“You here for something bad?” you asked, voice soft but steady.

Arthur met your eyes, and for a second he didn’t answer. Then, honest as it came: “Maybe. Ain’t sure yet.”

You nodded like you understood. Even if you didn’t.

“I should go,” you said, though neither of you moved.

He nodded once. “I won’t keep you.”

But you lingered. Just a second longer.

“You got a name?” you asked, before turning.

“Arthur.”

You gave a quiet nod, tucking his name somewhere inside you like it meant something already.

And then, because it felt like you had to say it—or maybe because it felt too easy not to—you said, “Don’t let this place ruin you.”

Arthur’s brows lifted a little, but he didn’t laugh this time. “I’ll try not to.”

You walked away first.

He watched until you were gone.

—

Over the next few days, Arthur rode in and out of Braithwaite Manor more often than he needed to.

That’s what he told himself, anyway.

Dutch’s dealings with the family were dragging out—more talk of moonshine, hidden routes, old favors nobody wanted to say out loud. Arthur wasn’t one for drawn-out conversations, but he kept showing up. Said it was business. Said it was about keeping things smooth.

But the truth was quieter, simpler.

He kept coming back because of you.

It didn’t start as anything. Just a glance. A look exchanged in a quiet hallway. A conversation that stuck longer than it should have. But after that, you were the first thing he looked for every time his boots hit the front steps.

He didn’t talk to you every time. Sometimes all he got was a glance. Sometimes nothing. But he watched for you all the same.

And when he saw you—just a flicker of a dress, or a whisper of your voice in the corridor—he stayed longer than he had to.

He told himself he was being careful. That the Braithwaites were snakes and he needed to know the lay of the land.

But deep down, he knew better.

You were the reason.

The sky had slipped into the soft blues and purples of evening, the air cooling but still thick with the day’s heat. Lanterns glowed at the corners of the manor, flickering gently like the house was holding its breath.

You stepped out alone, book in hand, your shoes quiet against the stone. The children were tucked in, the halls momentarily still. You hadn’t expected to see anyone.

But he was there.

Arthur Morgan, leaning just beside the steps near the carriage rail, his coat dusted from the road, hat low over his brow. The porch light lit the edges of him, sharp cheekbones catching the gold. He looked more like something pulled from a story than a man standing on your side of the house.

You stopped, before you even thought about it.

“You keep showin’ up,” you said, tone lighter than your chest felt.

Arthur lifted his gaze, slow and deliberate. “Maybe I like the company.”

You tilted your head, skeptical but not unfriendly. “Pretty bold thing to say to someone who hasn’t even told you her name.”

That smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—crooked, faint, but real.

“Don’t need a name to know you’re the only person around here worth lookin’ at.”

Your breath hitched. It was too honest, too unguarded, and it rattled something deep in your ribs. You opened your mouth—to scold, maybe, or smile, or walk away—but then he stepped forward.

He didn’t crowd you. But he reached out, and before you could react, his hand wrapped gently around your arm. He tugged—not hard, just enough to draw you closer. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the tension in the air.

He didn’t touch beyond that. Didn’t need to.

“I see you, you know,” he murmured. “You act like you’re just part of the house, like you’re meant to blend in. But you don’t. You walk different. Hold yourself different. And none of them even notice.”

You froze, breath catching in your throat. His eyes lingered on you—steady, focused. His voice was low enough to feel more than hear.

“You work too hard,” he added, softer. “Bet no one tells you that.”

Your heart pounded. You should’ve pulled away.

But you didn’t.

Instead, your eyes flicked up to his, and your voice came out quieter than you expected. “You don’t talk like the others.”

Arthur smiled again, but slower this time, like he wasn’t used to hearing that. “That a good thing?”

You were just about to answer—something dry, something teasing—when the voice came from behind.

“Miss.”

Your entire body tensed.

Arthur’s hand dropped at once, but it didn’t matter. The moment was already over.

Mr. Braithwaite stood a few steps behind, posture iron-straight, his face unreadable in the dark—except for his eyes, which burned cold.

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t need to.

“Inside,” he muttered. “Before you ruin what little place you’ve made for yourself here.”

You froze, shame flashing hot across your skin—not because you believed him, but because Arthur was still standing there, hearing every word. And because it was said like a warning, not just to you, but about you.

Arthur didn’t speak. His face was still, but his gaze hadn’t moved from yours.

“She wasn’t doin’ nothin’ wrong,” he said eventually, voice low.

Braithwaite’s tone didn’t change. “She was doing enough.”

You turned before he could say more, before Arthur could, too. You didn’t want to give either of them the chance to see what you were feeling.

But inside the house, up the steps, and behind your closed door—that place you were so close to ruining—you still felt the ghost of his fingers against your skin.

And for the first time in a long while, you wondered if losing your place might be worth it.